by June Thomson
‘I am finding genealogy a fascinating subject, despite people like Lionel Larkin poking about in their own ancestry hoping to find some noble forbears to compensate for their own insignificance. I enjoy it for the simple reason one can learn a lot about people: their lives, their hopes and fears, their triumphs and disasters. It is like peeling off the skin of an orange to get to the juicy heart of the fruit.’
At this point, he unexpectedly burst out laughing again.
‘And to be perfectly frank, my dear Watson – and no finger-crossing is needed here – I am by nature a very inquisitive person who likes to uncover other people’s secrets. That is why I became a private consulting detective. It is part nosiness and part wanting to ferret out the truth.
‘I think we both know by now the identity of the Lady in Black. But that is only a name. What we don’t know is much more interesting. What drives her to sit on a rock in the middle of the night and look out to sea? That’s why I want to go to Abbot’s Farm. The answer may lie there. So are you game?’
‘Of course I am,’ I answered him stoutly.
‘Good old Watson! So shall we go?’ Holding up his right hand with mock solemnity, the index and middle fingers crossed, he added, ‘Let us hope we don’t meet Lionel Larkin on the way.’
There was no sign of him as we drove into Barton so as Holmes pointed out with a sardonic smile, the cross-fingered gesture must have worked.
‘I shall have to start using it myself in this investigation,’ he remarked. ‘Perhaps our luck will turn for the good there as well.’
It had certainly given us a perfect day of bright sunshine and a light breeze that stirred the leaves, bringing us the aroma of warm earth and grass. Under a blue sky, faintly marbled here and there with white clouds, Abbot’s Farm lay at peace.
It was the first time we had seen the place at close range having viewed it before only from the lane, so as we approached it up the driveway I was aware of another side to it, apart from its unspoilt beauty. It was a working farm. There were barns and outbuildings, a milking parlour and a chicken house, the inhabitants of which were pecking about the yard and scattered in a flurry of feathers as we arrived.
There were other signs of activity as well: the sound of a thresher in some distant field, the deep-throated lowing of cows and the barking of a dog, a beautiful black, flop-eared spaniel that came running out of the house to meet us, and after sniffing at us suspiciously decided we were acceptable and wagged its tail in greeting.
Behind the dog came a pleasant-faced, middle-aged man who, like the dog, was willing to make friends as he held out his hand in welcome.
‘Mr Holmes and Dr Watson?’ he asked. ‘Pleased to meet you both. I’m Bob Lockhart. And this,’ he added, rubbing the top of the dog’s head, ‘is Peggy. Do come in.’
He stood aside to let us pass into a large, square hall, part of the original Tudor building, I guessed, judging by the beamed ceiling and the stone slabs on the floor. It had a subtle, complex aroma of smoke from log fires that had permeated the very wood and plaster of the place, mingled with the homely smell of baking bread and the sweeter scent of flowers and herbs wafting in from the garden.
‘I think the best person for you to see is my father, Tom,’ Bob Lockhart was saying. ‘He was a boy when Hetty Sutton used to visit here. He’ll be better able to tell you more about the family at that time than I can.’
As he spoke, he ushered us across the hall and down a passage that led off it, stopping at a door halfway down to add, ‘My wife will bring you coffee shortly. My father won’t join you. He’s old, you see, and has the shakes in his hands so he gets embarrassed about eating and drinking anything in front of other people.’
Knocking on the door, he opened it to announce, ‘It’s me, Dad. I’ve brought Mr Holmes and Dr Watson to meet you. I told you about them yesterday? They knew Hetty. Remember her? Hetty?’
He was addressing an elderly, white-haired man who sat in a winged armchair by the window, a plaid rug over his knees despite the warmth from the sunlight that poured into the room.
For a few seconds, he looked across at us, summing us up as the dog had done, before accepting us. We evidently passed muster for he nodded and then beckoned us into the room while his son hurriedly moved two chairs forward for us to sit on.
Although old, he had still kept an interest in life, unlike some elderly patients I had doctored in my time. His expression was alert and his eyes, a surprising bright blue, regarded us from under a thatch of white hair with a keen gaze. There were signs about him of his younger, outdoor life as a farmer in his weathered skin and the many small wrinkles gathered round his eyes and across his forehead from working outside in the wind or the bright light of the sun. It was there, too, in his hands, the tendons of which were gnarled like the roots of a tree holding firmly to the soil in which it grew. It was only the tremor in them as they lay side by side on top of the plaid rug that suggested he suffered from any physical weakness.
Turning his head to address his son, he said sharply, ‘Hetty? Of course I remember her. I may be old but I’m not senile yet.’
Bob Lockhart grinned at this rejoinder, amused by his father’s outspokenness and nodded to us to indicate it was only good-humoured family banter, not to be taken seriously.
‘Then I’ll leave you to it,’ he replied, as he left the room.
‘So you knew Hetty?’ old Mr Lockhart said as Holmes and I sat down on the chairs facing him.
I glanced across at Holmes, wondering how he was going to respond to this direct approach or whether it would become another fingers-crossed situation, but he seemed relaxed as if he were enjoying the encounter. Certainly he and old Mr Lockhart seemed to have come to some unspoken, friendly agreement at their meeting.
‘I knew of her,’ Holmes replied. ‘I was told she used to come here with her daughter.’
‘Ah, little Eleanor,’ old Mr Lockhart said, his tone full of warmth. ‘She was a real little beauty. Named after her grandmother, of course. It was an old family name. My father, Robert, was her cousin. Us Lockharts tend to do the same. Hetty was named after her father, Henry Trevalyan. Did you know him?’
‘No, I never met him,’ Holmes replied.
‘Then thank your lucky stars,’ old Mr Lockhart replied, a totally unexpected response. ‘No one in the family liked him. In fact, grandma Ellie cried when Eleanor said she was getting engaged to him. She was going to marry David Selby, a nice young man; had a farm over at Lower Melchett.’
‘Lower Melchett!’ Holmes exclaimed.
‘You know it?’ Old Mr Lockhart asked.
‘As a matter of fact, I called in at Melchett Manor once,’ Holmes said, not quite a finger-crossing situation for it was perfectly true; Holmes had indeed called in there.
‘Did you meet Sir Oliver Wayne?’ Old Mr Lockhart asked eagerly, obviously delighted that this bond had been formed between Holmes and himself. It was then I realised what was happening. The old man had misunderstood Holmes’ role in the situation. He had taken it to be a more intimate relationship than it really was, with mutual friends and acquaintances; almost family, in fact, and therefore it was quite permissible to confide personal details that he would probably not have shared with a stranger.
He was an elderly man, almost certainly lonely, whose own family was too busy to spend much time reminiscing about the past. So to him, Holmes was a godsend, a willing listener to the kind of past recollections that his own son was too busy to pay attention to.
I glanced across at Holmes, wondering if he, too, was aware of this. I could tell by the way he met my gaze that he knew what he was doing. There was a certain cocking of his head to the right telling me: ‘Yes, I know what you are thinking,’ and an almost imperceptible raising of his left eyebrow that warned me not to do anything about it. So old Mr Lockhart was left to continue his assumption that we were not quite what he thought we were, and so he chatted on.
He was asking Holmes about his relationship with
Sir Oliver Wayne. Had he met him at Melchett Manor?
‘No,’ Holmes replied, quite truthfully. ‘I believe he and his wife, Lady Wayne, were on holiday in Italy at the time.’
‘That’s when the burglars broke in and stole some of their silver,’ old Mr Lockhart informed us. ‘Dreadful business!’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Holmes agreed solemnly. ‘Quite awful.’
Neither of them spoke for a few moments, as they both considered the depravity of such an act, like the two-minute silence that follows a public memorial service. Then, the mourning over, old Mr Lockhart picked up the conversation where he had left it.
‘Eleanor’s fiancé, David Selby – you remember I mentioned him? – he asked to go hunting with Sir Oliver’s father. That’s what killed him. He was thrown off his horse one Friday when they were out with the hounds; broke his neck.’
Holmes and I both made suitably shocked responses, which old Mr Lockhart acknowledged with a nod of his head, before he continued with his narrative.
‘That’s when Henry Trevalyan took over. She was caught on the rebound, so to speak; still grieving over David. He’d met her at some village do or other, and he used to come calling, all smarmy and lovey-dovey.’
I assumed he was referring to Henry Trevalyan although one had to read between the pronouns to make exact sense of what he was saying.
Holmes, who seemed to be having no problem, remarked casually, ‘He came from Cornwall, didn’t he?’
‘That’s right. Tin mining.’
It was said dismissively, as if Cornwall and tin mining were well outside old Mr Lockhart’s scope of interest.
‘Why on earth did he come to Fulworth? It seems a strange choice to make,’ Holmes replied.
‘According to my father, he wanted to be a gentleman, someone who doesn’t have to get his hands dirty to make a living. As I understood it, it was his older brother who owned the mine and made all the decisions. He didn’t like that. So he sold his share of the business, put the proceeds into the bank and came here to live on the interest. No one knew him down here, you see, so he could act the gentleman with not a soul to question his right. My father always said it was the same need to be part of the gentry that persuaded Henry Trevalyan to marry Eleanor; her husband-to-be – David Selby – was a friend of Sir Francis Wayne, Sir Oliver’s grandfather, so that to Henry Trevalyan was almost as good as a ticket to the House of Lords. Don’t ask me why Eleanor agreed to marry him. She was a woman, so God alone knows the answer to that one.’
Loneliness, I thought, was a possible explanation but I said nothing. Anyway, the conversation was cut short at this point by a tap on the door, heralding the arrival of his daughter-in-law, Mrs Lockhart, bearing a tray of coffee cups, the complementary milk jug and sugar basin, and a plate of home-made shortbread biscuits. It was as if the bond between Holmes and the old Mr Lockhart, as well as their conversation, was immediately severed. Old Mr Lockhart sank back into his chair, and his hands began to shake more visibly as Mrs Lockhart, not a direct member of the family, and of another generation, bustled about smiling and passing cups of coffee and biscuits to her guests while he took a back seat.
The talk moved to less personal topics to which old Mr Lockhart made slow responses apart from an occasional nod of his head or an enigmatic ‘oh-ah’ that I took to be a form of partial agreement.
We took our leave shortly afterwards, Mr and Mrs Lockhart and Peggy, the dog, accompanying us to the front door where Holmes and I said our farewells, old Mr Lockhart remaining in his chair by the window.
‘Any use?’ I enquired of Holmes as we set off down the drive on the way home: meaning, had the encounter with the Lockharts produced any significant evidence in the Lady in Black investigation.
There was a long silence before he replied, and when he finally spoke it was with obvious reluctance.
‘Only that one should be very, very careful whom one chooses to be one’s parents.’
‘But one can’t choose, Holmes!’ I protested.
‘Exactly so, my dear fellow,’ Holmes replied. ‘With your usual perspicacity, you have again struck the nail on the head.’
And with that he said nothing more during the whole journey back to Fulworth, leaving me wondering quite what to make of his reply and whether or not it had any relevance to the Lady in Black inquiry.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Holmes was in a very subdued state of mind for the next few days and seemed reluctant to discuss the Lady in Black inquiry so, respecting his silence, I made no reference to either the case nor his mood even though I thought I had found the answer to his remark concerning the missing person in Langdale Pike’s account which I was eager to discuss with him.
As for Inspector Bardle’s failure in sending any report on the fingerprints on the pantry window in Melchett Manor, there was nothing I could do or say regarding this matter, although we learnt later by post that he had been called in to assist in a case of fraud in Lewes, which had temporarily taken up his time. However, as soon as it was cleared up, he had been able to turn his attention to Holmes’ inquiry regarding the fingerprint evidence, a report on which he had included in his letter.
Unfortunately, it was not the outcome Holmes had anticipated for, having eagerly torn open the envelope and scanned its contents, he crumpled up both and tossed them into the grate in disgust.
‘Not good news?’ I asked.
‘No, Watson; not good at all. The prints on the visiting card I handed to that manservant at Fulworth Hall did not match those found in Melchett Manor. Had they been the same, the case would have been solved.’
‘Oh, I am so sorry, Holmes,’ I said, knowing how much it meant to him.
He gave me one of his lopsided smiles.
‘I agree it is a setback but not the end of the world. What does that old axiom say: “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again.” To be frank, I find its advice infuriating and, in this instance, quite inappropriate. We can’t try again or rather, can’t use the same stratagem and turn up at Fulworth Hall for a second time pretending to be an American bibliophile and his chauffeur. So I shall have to put my mind to the problem and conjure up some other little ruse although at the moment I can think of nothing.’
‘I am sure you will, Holmes,’ I said positively in an attempt to raise his spirits.
‘My dear, Watson,’ he replied, ‘thank you for your support. You are a good friend to me, you know. I am very fortunate.’
I was deeply moved by the sincerity in his voice and would have done anything to help him although I realised only Holmes could find the answer to this particular problem.
He was saying, ‘I know why the business over the fingerprint failed. The wrong person took hold of the card. But say no more about it. There must be more interesting matters we can discuss.’
‘Yes, of course, Holmes,’ I agreed, adding, in the hope that a change of subject might cheer him up, ‘By the way, I think I know what you meant about the person who was missing from Langdale Pike’s account.’
‘Really?’ Holmes asked. I thought I saw a momentary brightening of his eyes, so I pressed on.
‘It was Eleanor, wasn’t it? Hetty’s daughter by George Sutton.’
He was silent for several seconds and I was afraid I had thrust him into even deeper despondency. And then he lifted his hand and I saw that small wry smile touch the corner of his lips again.
‘Oh well done, Watson!’ he exclaimed in a sardonic tone of voice so I knew he had recovered his spirits. ‘You are quite right, of course. Langdale Pike and Lionel Larkin suffer from the same mental handicap: a fixed perception of people, their feelings, their relationships, their very view of the world. Like horses, they are wearing blinkers and their visual awareness is restricted. In other words, they suffer from a form of tunnel vision. In Lionel Larkin’s case, it was to see genealogy entirely from a masculine point of view. In Langdale Pike’s, it is the adult who is supreme. Children play no role in his view of the world,
only the grown-ups.
‘So you are right, dear fellow. How old was Eleanor Sutton when her mother married Sinclair? Five years old or thereabouts; a crucial age in a child’s development, when she is beginning to become more self-aware and her perceptions of the world about her are maturing. And what did she see? Her father dead and replaced by an uncaring stepfather, her mother on the verge of a breakdown, her home broken up, the friends she had once known no longer there. It must have had a dreadful effect on her. Roger Sinclair has a great deal to answer for. One can only hope he pays a high price for all the damage he has done. But I think that is too much to ask. People like Sinclair tend to sail through life untouched by any feelings of guilt, their consciences intact; that is if they possess one.’
‘And we can do nothing,’ I said, deeply moved by Holmes’ comments.
‘Not unless you happen to possess a magic wand,’ he replied. Then suddenly his mood shifted. ‘Oh come, my dear fellow!’ he exclaimed. ‘We cannot continue in this doleful manner. Let us find a more cheerful subject to discuss. What about Harold Stackhurst’s party on Saturday evening? Now there’s an event to look forward to. May I suggest I leave you to supply the flowers while I order the champagne?’
And so the gloom lifted, at least for the time being although I still had the uneasy feeling that it was merely lurking in a dark corner ready to creep out again should either of us give it the opportunity.
We were a little late in setting out for The Gables on Saturday evening. There had been a heavy rainfall in the night that had affected the car’s ignition and I had some difficulty in getting it to start. By the time we arrived, Holmes bearing the champagne and I the flowers, the party had begun in the large drawing room that overlooked the garden and the Downs at the back of the house. Pausing in the doorway for a moment to inspect the guests already present, I noticed several whom I recognised, among them Ian Murdoch, at the sight of whom my heart sank a little, remembering the awkward situation that had arisen the last time we had met him. But it lifted again when I saw Maud Bellamy was not with him. She was standing some distance away, looking more beautiful than I remembered, wearing a dark blue dress, the colour of amethysts, her russet-coloured hair swept back into what I believe is called a chignon. Harold Stackhurst was there, too, of course on the far side of the room.
