by June Thomson
Of course! I said to myself. Hetty had been living in Birmingham with her daughter Eleanor after her marriage to George Sutton and had, apparently enjoyed a busy social life among Sutton’s friends. I could now see what Holmes had meant by ‘a second location’. We had been concentrating too closely on Hetty’s childhood and her Sussex connections. The shift away to Birmingham had opened up a whole new area of investigation.
Langdale Pike was saying, ‘I spoke in particular to one lady, a Mrs William Hardy, quite an amiable person who claimed to be a bonne amie of Mrs Sutton. They used to go shopping en concert. Their children were also playmates and took their puppies out for walks together. Do you want the names?’ he added, tapping his notebook. ‘I have all of them here, including the puppies. You did tell me to collect as much information as possible.’
It was said in a pert manner as if Pike was getting his own back for being given the assignment in the first place, which he considered a waste of his own valuable time.
Holmes, wisely, took no notice.
‘There is no need, thank you, Langdale,’ he said politely. ‘Go forward, if you please, to George Sutton’s death. I understand Mrs Sutton took it badly.’
‘Oh that, yes. Mrs Hardy mentioned that at some length, rather like Lionel Larkin and his antecedents. But Mrs Hardy’s role was rather more like Florence Nightingale’s, a nursemaid’s.’ He stopped and, rather surprisingly, looked a little abashed. ‘No, that is not quite fair to the woman. I think she was genuinely fond of Mrs Sutton and her daughter and wanted to help them. She visited her quite often to make sure the staff were looking after her.’
‘Staff?’ Holmes repeated in a disinterested tone of voice that I knew from experience, disguised a strong, genuine curiosity, ‘how many did she have?’
‘About seven, I suppose,’ Langdale Pike replied. ‘Her husband had been quite riche and there were several servants, I believe: a housekeeper, a couple of maids, gardeners, a cook, of course, and a chauffeur.’
‘What was his name?’ Holmes asked in that same offhand voice.
‘My dear man, I have no idea. Dogs are another matter – I like dogs – but servants! I hardly ever take notice of other people’s domestic staff. Their lives are much too dull to cause any scandal unless the butler seduces the lady of the house or the cook poisons the dinner guests. It is their peccadillos that interest me. They are my bread and butter, my raison d’être. Now if you had asked about Hetty Sutton’s gentleman friend, I might have been able to help you.’
Holmes immediately sat up, alert and attentive.
‘A gentleman friend!’ he exclaimed.
‘Yes, and a most unfortunate choice as well. Some women are so ingénue when choosing a lover. Certainly, Hetty Sutton was, much to her misfortune.’
‘Tell me about him!’
‘I will tell you everything my little bird, Mrs Hardy, told me, so the juicier items may have been deleted before they came to me. You must bear that in mind. I suppose you will want to know his name?’
‘You know it?’ Holmes demanded.
Langdale Pike smiled in a smug know-all manner.
‘Indeed I do, Sherlock. It is Roger Sinclair.’
‘How did she meet him?’
‘I know that, too. He was introduced to the Suttons at one of their soirées, before George Sutton’s death, by a friend. He was from London but evidently came to Birmingham quite often, on “business”, he said although he never made it clear exactly what his “business” was. I have my suspicions though. However, to revenir à nos moutons as the French say, he became part of the Sutton’s coterie, a charming, amusing, good-looking addition apparently.
‘Don’t ask me what he did for a living; I don’t know. But I imagine it was something not exactly illicit but very close to it: gambling, dealing in stocks and shares, that sort of enterprise, although, if I read the cards correctly, his main source of income was older women who fell for his charms and whom he milked, but very discreetly, mind you, to pay for his upkeep.
‘However, Sinclair had his own Achilles’ heel in the shape of a very beautiful and desirable woman of easy virtue, the type we English label with all sorts of crude-sounding epithets such as harlot, strumpet, whore; ugly words, you must agree, whereas the French vocabulary is much more refined and agreeable: une grande horizontale, for example, or a poule de luxe. Her name, you were about to ask?’ Langdale Pike asked, casting an inquisitive, bright-eyed glance in our direction. Receiving no response, he continued, ‘Her real name, I gather, was Margaret White, the youngest daughter of a minor clergyman from Stafford. Professionally, she was known as Marguerite Le Blanc. You’re surely not thinking of contacting her, are you, Sherlock? I warn you she would be far outside your financial sphere, my dear man.’
Ignoring Pike’s last jibe, Holmes remarked, ‘I think we can guess what happened after George Sutton’s death. Roger Sinclair married his widow. Before 1870, I imagine?’
I was about to ask why the choice of that particular date when its significance dawned on me. It was, of course, the year when the Married Woman’s Property Act was passed in Parliament by which wives gained control of any money or assets in their names, which until that date had passed automatically into their husbands’ possession.
‘My dear man, need you ask?’ Pike replied. ‘Roger Sinclair had summed up the situation before Sutton’s death. A young wife, a wealthy but elderly husband. It was only a matter of waiting, fingers crossed, for the likely outcome. No wonder Sinclair kept calling in on them in Birmingham. Like a vulture he was watching his prey, ready to move in for the kill when the time was ripe.’
Holmes looked grim.
‘How much did he take?’
‘Almost everything,’ Langdale replied with a shrug. ‘All the money and property George Sutton had left her and the child: the house, its contents, her jewellery. Need I go on? He kept the car, of course; it was a very useful status symbol. But the servants had to go. Mrs Sutton could no longer afford to keep them.’
‘All of them?’ Holmes asked.
‘I believe so.’
‘So she was left with nothing?’
‘Practically nothing although I understand her mother had left her a modest inheritance in trust, so Sinclair could not get his sticky fingers on that. I suppose her mother assumed she would be more than comfortably supported by Sutton’s wealth. Apparently the dear lady was ignorant of the Roger Sinclairs of this world.
‘Then there was the child, of course.’
‘Child?’ I put in. ‘You mean Eleanor, Hetty’s daughter by George Sutton?’
‘Actually, no. I was referring to Roger Sinclair’s child. She became enceinte soon after the wedding.’
‘Oh no!’ I protested aghast.
Holmes response was much more down to earth.
‘What happened to it?’ he asked abruptly.
‘According to my little bird, Mrs Hardy, the mother miscarried after which she had some sort of nervous breakdown. Mrs Hardy had too much politesse to tell me all the intimate details. By this time, Sinclair was living most of the time in London and rarely came to Birmingham.’
‘And his wife?’ Holmes asked.
‘After the house was sold, she moved into a small rented property in the poorer part of town and lost touch with her circle of well-to-do friends, or rather they lost touch with her. My little bird, Mrs Hardy, called on her a few times but found the experience too mélancolique so she, too, dropped out. I think they were ashamed of her: no money, no servants, no motor car, a thoroughly unsuitable roué of a husband and a dead baby to boot – and in a strange way were afraid that her ill fortune was infectious and might taint theirs. After that, Mrs Sinclair disappeared, it was assumed to her parents’ home somewhere in the depths of Sussex, I believe.’
Langdale Pike broke off at this point and then added, ‘Is that all, Sherlock? Grateful as I am for your introduction to Lady Agatha, there is a limit to my generosity, you know. I really feel I have paid my dues. Anyw
ay, the hour is nearly up and my driver should be here at any moment. So pour me another glass of port, my dear fellow, and let us consider the debt settled.’
As if on cue, the man arrived just as Holmes was serving the wine but, leaving him to wait on the doorstep, Pike raised his glass in a farewell salutation.
‘To you, Sherlock and you, too, Dr Watson. I wish you a successful outcome to your little mystery. Do let me know the dénouement.’
‘Dénouement!’ Holmes exclaimed in disgust as the door closed behind Pike and we heard the car drive away. ‘We are still only halfway there!’
‘Are we?’ I asked. ‘I thought Langdale Pike was most helpful.’
‘As far as he could,’ Holmes agreed a little reluctantly. ‘But like the business with women not appearing in genealogies, Pike has failed to mention one very important person, crucial to our investigation.’
‘Did he? Who was that?’
‘Work it out for yourself, Watson. And while you are doing so, give some thought to the reason why Inspector Bardle has not yet identified those fingerprints I gave him. That is another little puzzle that still has to be solved.’
CHAPTER TEN
The following day, Holmes was in a restless mood, partly due to impatience at not receiving the report from Inspector Bardle on the fingerprints found on the pantry window at Melchett Manor but mostly, I thought, through the lack of progress generally in the inquiry. But that was not all. I could tell by his mannerisms that he had some deeper problem on his mind, such as his renewed drumming with his fingertips on the table or rising abruptly from his chair to walk up and down the room suggested. More troubling was his resumption of his night-time excursions, indicating his inability to sleep. In the next two days, I heard him creeping down the stairs in the early hours of the morning, one particular tread’s creaking giving him away.
I knew instinctively where he was going: to the cove to sit on that cussed rock that had began to antagonise me so deeply that I wished the wretched thing was at the bottom of the sea. It was time, I decided, that this particular mystery, and Holmes’ need to keep revisiting it, should be solved once and for all.
Therefore, on the third night, when I again heard him let himself out of the house, instead of remaining in bed, fuming, I, too, went downstairs but on a more mundane mission. Lighting the lamp, I poured myself out a whisky from the tantalus on the sideboard and seated myself in one of the armchairs, glass in hand, to await Holmes’ return.
According to the clock on the mantelpiece, it was three o’clock before he eventually arrived, clearly prepared by the light in the window to expect my presence and to meet me face-to-face.
‘Well, Watson,’ he said, looking a little chastened. ‘What got you up at this ungodly hour?’
‘I could ask the same of you,’ I replied. ‘What makes you get up at the same ungodly hour and go down to the cove?’
‘Oh!’ he exclaimed, much taken aback by my rejoinder. ‘How did you find that out?’
‘By following you,’ I retorted.
‘I see,’ he said, adding with one of his quirky smiles. ‘May I join you with a whisky, my dear Watson?’
‘Help yourself. It’s your whisky,’ I replied.
I watched him cross the room to the sideboard where he rattled about for a few seconds finding a glass and opening the tantalus without speaking. However, the language of the body sometimes can convey as much, if not more, than the spoken word, and Holmes’ back, at that moment, expressed a great deal. His spine stiffened and his shoulders also grew taut as he thought over the situation and how best to handle it. And then he made up his mind. His head went up and he turned to face me.
‘I’m sorry,’ he began.
But by this time, I was in no mood to compromise.
‘Never mind the apologies,’ I said. ‘I would prefer an explanation, and I think I deserve an honest answer. You invited me here for a week’s holiday but since my arrival I have been involved in a series of strange incidents, the significance of which you have failed to confide in me. If you do not wish to do so, that is your choice. My decision, however, is that unless you are prepared to trust me completely, I shall have to say goodbye and go home.
‘I hope that is not the outcome of my visit. I regard you as an old, valued friend, Holmes, and will be distressed if we parted on unhappy terms.’
He was silent for what seemed a long time, although it was probably only a few seconds and in that silence I was fearful that I had angered him so much that it would bring an end to our friendship. And yet I could not regret a syllable of what I had said. I had meant every word and had I not spoken up, our friendship would have ended anyway – for it would have been founded on a false premise, lacking that mutual trust that was essential, in my eyes, at least, for a worthy relationship.
It was then that Holmes broke the silence.
‘Let me show you something,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘It’s upstairs, I’ll fetch it; I shall only be a moment getting it.’
He spoke in a low voice that was devoid of any stress or emotion, before leaving the room, returning shortly afterwards with a small leather box in his hand that might have contained a piece of jewellery or a watch. This he placed on the table in front of me, saying in the same dispassionate tone, ‘Open it and see what is inside.’
I followed his bidding and, taking off the lid, revealed its contents.
It was not a watch as I had half-expected but a watch chain, curled up at the bottom of the container to which was attached a gold coin, threaded on it by a small hole that had been drilled in its upper rim, turning it into a decorative fob. Much bemused, I lifted it out and let it dangle between my fingers where it spun gently to and fro. It was a sovereign, I noticed, and it was only then that its significance dawned on me and I understood its hidden relevance.
Nineteen years earlier, on 20th March 18881 to be precise, a date I clearly remember for I became involved with one of Holmes’ most famous cases and, on the same occasion, was reconciled with Holmes after a period of separation that had hurt me deeply. The cause in the rift in our relationship was my marriage, the details of which I shall not describe in detail except to explain that Holmes regarded it as a betrayal. As I stated at the beginning of this account, I consider my private life to be no one’s business except my own and also because some aspects are irrelevant.
Suffice it to say, in those intervening years, I saw very little of Holmes. He continued with his vocation as a private consultant detective, for which by this time he was internationally renowned, while I resumed my old medical career as a family doctor from a practice I had bought in Paddington.
It was while I was returning from a visit to a patient on that particular evening that my route home took me past my former lodgings at 221B Baker Street. It was for old time’s sake and, I admit, out of a kind of nostalgic longing, that caused me to halt on the pavement to glance up at the windows of the sitting room which I had shared with Holmes in those days of our close friendship and to recall those evenings when we had sat together by the fireside, discussing his latest case. Other details were still clear in my memory: the tantalus on the sideboard, Holmes’ cigars in the coal scuttle, his papers strewn about the room.
At that same moment, by sheer coincidence, Holmes walked past the window, casting his shadow across the blind so that I could see his tall, lean figure in silhouette, at which I made up my mind to call on him. To my delight, Holmes welcomed me and, to a degree, our old friendship was renewed.
It was during this visit that Holmes’ client arrived for an appointment and Holmes suggested I stayed and was introduced to him.
And so I met the King of Bohemia and became associated with the scandal in the Bohemia case, which involved Irene Adler.
For those of you who are not familiar with that inquiry, I shall give a brief account of it, in particular, of Irene Adler herself, whom in my account, ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’, I referred to as ‘the woman’ in Holmes’ life.
/> She was an opera singer, a contralto, born in New Jersey in 1856, which means that in March 1889, the time of the events to which I have already referred, she was thirty-one. A highly talented diva, she had performed at La Scala Milan and the Imperial Opera House in Warsaw but had since retired to live in London, occasionally taking part in concerts.
It was during her career in Warsaw that she had met the King of Bohemia, who had not then succeeded to the throne but bore the title of Crown Prince.
It is not my place to divulge intimate details of their relationship. I leave that to my readers’ imagination but the Crown Prince had sent her some compromising letters and they were photographed together. However, since those heady days, he had succeeded to the throne and was planning on an altogether more suitable regal marriage to the second daughter of the King of Scandinavia, Princess Clotilde.
Proud and strong-minded, and angry at being rejected, Irene Adler had threatened to send the compromising letters and photograph to the King of Scandinavia, thus ruining the King of Bohemia’s hope of marrying his daughter. It was these items that the King of Bohemia wanted Holmes to retrieve so that his marriage could be achieved.
Holmes had agreed to take on the case and it was during his attempt to recover the letters and photographs that he saw Irene Adler coming out of her house in St John’s Wood.
It was only a glimpse but it was enough.
His reaction is what the French rather dramatically call a coup de foudre, in other words, a ‘thunderclap’ and which we more prosaic English refer to as ‘love at first sight’. In short, he was smitten.
