“As a matter of fact I do,” I replied. “He came to me on the recommendation of a neighbor — oh, eighteen months or so ago — and we struck up a friendship of sorts; enough that when he was seriously incommoded by illness in his household I invited him to dinner.”
“When was this?” asked Low, with an eagerness which somewhat surprised me.
“Why” — I paused to think — “this was in the spring of last year; April, as I recall. His two servants were struck down by a sudden illness — food poisoning, I suspect — and the poor man seemed somewhat lost, so I invited him to dinner at my club. He seemed more pleased than the invitation itself would warrant, and was reluctant to leave; almost as if he did not want to return to his house. Indeed, he was in a rather agitated state; distracted, as if he were continually turning some problem over in his mind.”
“You are very close to the truth, Doctor,” said Low gravely. “The agitation which Edward Dunning displayed was occasioned by Karswell, and certain steps which that person was even then taking; steps which almost led to Dunning’s death.”
“Death!” exclaimed my friend. “Surely that brought Karswell within reach of the law?”
“Yes and no,” replied Low after a pause. “You see, gentlemen,” he continued, “Karswell was a very clever man in some ways, and was familiar with practices which would allow him to exact revenge against someone while ensuring that he himself remained safe from prosecution; there were rumors that he was preparing another book on the subject, although nothing came of it. Unfortunately for him, he ran up against two people — Edward Dunning being one of them — who were prepared to use his own methods, and thus escape harm by throwing Karswell’s own agents against him.”
“Are you saying that you believe this Karswell used supernatural means to accomplish his ends?” asked Holmes in astonishment.
“That is precisely what I am saying, Mr. Holmes,” replied Low gravely. “I agree with the words of St. Augustine: Credo ut intelligam.” 1 Holmes shook his head.
“I am afraid I must side with Petrarch: Vos vestros servate, meos mihi linquite mores.2 It has been my experience that no case, no matter how bizarre or otherworldly it may seem when it commences, cannot be explained by entirely natural means. Surely your own experiences, Mr. Low, will have shown you that man is capable enough of evil, without ascribing its presence to the supernatural.”
“As to your last point, Mr. Holmes, we are in complete agreement. Where we differ, it seems, is in our willingness to accept that not everything we see or hear or experience can be rationalized. I enter every case I undertake with a perfectly clear mind, and no one is more pleased than I when it can be proved that something which appears to be supernatural has a completely logical explanation that would stand up in a court of law. And yet it is my belief that we are standing on the frontier of an unknown world, the rules of which we do not comprehend and can only vaguely grasp, in flashes, as our unready senses catch broken glimpses of things which obey laws we cannot understand. One day, perhaps, this other world will be understood, and mapped as fully as any known country on earth; until then we can only advance slowly, storing away pieces of the puzzle in hopes that they can be fitted together in the fullness of time.”
It was an extraordinary speech to hear in the prosaic surroundings of a first-class carriage rattling through the placid English countryside; but Flaxman Low’s earnest face and steady voice carried a conviction that it was impossible to ridicule. I could tell that my friend was impressed despite himself, and when he replied it was in a tone more restrained and conciliatory than would have been the case only a few minutes earlier.
“Well, Mr. Low, we must agree to disagree on certain points; but I look forward to the experience of working with you on this case. Perhaps, if you would be so good, you might tell us more of Mr. Karswell.”
“But what can he have to do with this?” I interjected. “He died almost a year ago, and surely can have nothing to do with the matter in hand.”
“Possibly not,” said my friend, “but the fact remains that a man who appears to have died in questionable circumstances, and who himself may have been involved in the death of at least one person, has left behind him a house which is now, in turn, the scene of mysterious occurrences. This may prove to be mere coincidence, but it is not something an investigator can ignore. The more facts with which we are armed, the more likely that we shall bring Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald’s case to a speedy — and satisfactory — conclusion.”
I will not try the patience of my readers by detailing the events which Flaxman Low laid before us; Dr. James of King’s College has since provided his own account of the case, which is readily available. Suffice it to say that Mr. Julian Karswell appeared to have been a deeply unpleasant person, quick to anger, sensitive to criticism both real and imagined, and with the fire of vengeance burning within him, so much so that any who crossed his path appeared to have very real cause to fear for their safety. He was, according to Low, responsible for the death of John Harrington, and very nearly killed Edward Dunning, although Holmes refused to believe that he used supernatural means to accomplish his ends; nor did he believe that Karswell’s sudden death at Abbeville was anything other than the accident the French investigators deemed it to be. “For if a man will go walking about in a site where extensive repairs are being carried out, we cannot be surprised to hear that some mischance has befallen him,” he said, while Flaxman Low shook his head but said nothing.
Our companion had scarcely finished narrating his story when our train began to slow, and our stop was announced. We were among only a handful of passengers who alighted, and before the train had pulled away we were approached by a coachman, who nodded his head respectfully at us.
“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, and Mr. Low, is it?” he enquired. “You are all expected, gentlemen; I’ll see to your baggage if you will kindly follow me.”
We left the station and found a carriage awaiting us, a fine team of horses standing harnessed in front of it. Holmes ran his keen eyes over them.
“I see that we have not far to go to Lufford Abbey,” he remarked, and the coachman glanced at him.
“No, sir, little more’n a mile or so. You’ve been here before, then?”
“No,” interjected Low, before my friend could reply, “but the horses are fresh and glossy, which would indicate that they have not travelled far to get here.”
Holmes’ lips twitched in a slight smile. “You evidently see and observe, Mr. Low. Excellent traits in a detective.”
“I have learned from a master,” replied Low, giving a small bow. “Indeed, I may say that it was reading the early accounts of your cases, as penned by Dr. Watson, which first gave me the thought of applying your methods to the investigation of that frontier which we were discussing during our journey here. Indeed, one day it might come to pass that you are acknowledged as being as great a forerunner in that field as you are in the science of more ordinary detection.”
Our bags had been loaded in the carriage, and we climbed in. The coachman called out to the horses and we were on our way, rumbling through the main street of a pretty village crowded with half-timbered buildings which spoke of a more peaceful way of life than existed in the bustling metropolis which we had left. The tranquillity around us contrasted so sharply with the story Flaxman Low had told us in the train, and the dark deeds hinted at in Mrs. Fitzgerald’s letter, that I could not help shivering. Low, who was sitting opposite me, caught my eye and nodded.
“Yes, Doctor,” he said, as if in answer to my thoughts, “it is difficult to believe that such things can exist when the evidence of our senses shows us such pleasant scenes. I hope, in all honesty, that our clients’ case may prove to have an entirely logical and rational solution; but given what I know of the late owner of Lufford Abbey, I confess I fear the worst.”
It seemed that we had scarcely left the village behind us when the carriage turned through a set of massive iron gates, and we found ourselves dr
iving through beautifully maintained grounds. Bright clumps of yellow daffodils were dotted about a wide sweep of grassland, which led in turn to a thick plantation of trees on both sides of the drive. Ahead of us lay Lufford Abbey itself, an imposing building of mellow stone which seemed to glow in the warm afternoon sunlight. I did not have time to contemplate the house, however, for as soon as the carriage drew up the front door opened, and our host and hostess came out to greet us.
They were an interesting study in contrasts, Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald. He was tall and slender, with dark eyes set in a pale face, and an unruly shock of black hair, a lock of which he was perpetually brushing back from his forehead. His wife, while almost as tall as her husband, was more sturdily built, and her blue eyes looked out from a face which I guessed was, under normal circumstances, ruddy-complexioned and clear, as of one who spends a good deal of time in the open air. Now, however, it wore a look of anxiety, an expression shared by Mr. Fitzgerald, who stepped forward with short, nervous steps, wringing his hands together in an attitude of embarrassment.
“Mr. Low?” he enquired, looking from one of us to another, and our companion nodded his head.
“I am Flaxman Low, and these gentlemen are Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. We understand from your coachman that we are all expected.”
“Yes, yes, of course … oh dear, this is really most awkward. I do not know how I came to make such a terrible mistake. The dates — of course, I put the wrong one in my letter to you, Mr. Low, and it was only when I spoke with my wife after that I realized what had happened. We did not intend … that is to say, we meant … such a dreadful mix-up…”
His words trailed off, and he wore a look of contrition that was almost comical. His wife stepped forward firmly and placed a hand on his arm.
“My husband is correct in saying that this is an awkward situation, gentlemen; but such events happen in the best-regulated of households, and I believe that when you hear our story you will excuse us. Matters have been somewhat” — she paused, as if in search of the correct word — “fraught here in recent days, and we were both so anxious of a solution that we proceeded independently of each other, with the result that you now see. We will, of course, understand perfectly should one of you decide that he would rather not stay.”
“Explanations are unnecessary,” replied Holmes, and Low nodded. “My friend and I were not previously acquainted with Mr. Low, but a fortuitous chance has ensured that we had an opportunity to discuss the matter — so far as we know it — on the way here, and I think I may safely say that we see no difficulty in combining our efforts.”
“Mr. Holmes is quite correct,” added Low. “While we may differ in certain of our beliefs, we are united in our determination to put an end to the difficulties which you face.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said our host, relief sweeping across his face. For a moment the look of anxiety left him, and I was able to see traces of the good humor which I suspected his countenance usually wore. “I cannot tell you how relieved we both are to hear this. Of course, we really must explain why it is that…”
“Yes, we must,” interrupted Mrs. Fitzgerald, firmly but kindly. “However I do not think, John, that the front drive is the place for explanations.”
“Of course; you are quite right, my dear.” He turned and smiled at us. “Forgive me once more; my manners have quite escaped me. The maid will show you to your rooms, and then we will lay all the facts before you, in hopes that you will see light where we see only darkness.”
Less than half-an-hour elapsed before we were assembled in a pleasantly furnished sitting-room with our host and hostess, and provided with refreshments. Both Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald seemed to take pleasure in the everyday ritual of pouring tea and passing cakes, and for a moment their cares and anxieties seemed to fade in the flow of casual conversation around them.
“Yes,” said Mr. Fitzgerald, in answer to a question of Low’s, “there was an abbey here, although nothing of it now remains apart from a few relics housed in the parish church. Most of it was destroyed in 1539, and what little was left — mainly stables and the Abbot’s lodging, from what I gather — has long since vanished. Some outlying domestic buildings were the last to go; according to village gossip there was an old man who, early in the eighteenth century, could still point out the sites of some of the buildings, but this knowledge appears to have died with him. I cannot think of another similar monastic house which has disappeared so completely from the ken of man.”
“You are a student of such things, then?” enquired Holmes.
“In a very modest way. Being a gentleman of leisure, I have the time and opportunity to indulge myself in that way; and have a natural inclination towards such subjects, tinged with melancholy as they are. Parts of this house were built very shortly after the abbey was dissolved, and I suspect that many of the stones from the original monastic building found their way into the construction of it, hence the house’s name. Inigo Jones added to it in the seventeenth century, so we find ourselves in possession of a very interesting piece of our country’s history.”
“And in possession of something else, it appears,” said Low. “Your letters, however, provided little by way of information on that point.”
Mr. Fitzgerald’s face clouded, and there was a sharp clatter as his wife placed her teacup somewhat unsteadily in its saucer. “Yes,” our host replied after a moment’s pause, as if summoning up strength. “The truth is, gentlemen, that I — we — found it very difficult to convey the facts of the case in a letter.”
“What my husband means, I think,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald, “is that the recent … events here sound, on paper, so inconsequential that they would appear laughable to someone who has not experienced them.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” said Low earnestly, “that none of us are inclined to laugh. I know something of the man who lived here before you, and informed Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson of the facts surrounding him, and the manner of his death. It is not a laughing matter.”
Husband and wife glanced at each other. “We are agreed,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald, “that Julian Karswell — or rather something to do with him — is in some way responsible for the events which are taking place; but we do not agree as to how or why this should be. My own feeling is that there is a logical explanation behind everything, whereas my husband feels that—” Here she stopped, as if uncertain how to proceed, or unwilling to give voice to what her husband thought. Mr. Fitzgerald took up the thread.
“Elizabeth is trying to say that I feel Mr. Karswell, although dead, is still influencing the events in his former house.” He gave a somewhat hollow laugh. “My father was Irish and my mother Welsh, gentlemen, so I have inherited more than my fair share of willingness to believe in what others disdain.”
“Perhaps,” said Holmes, with a touch of asperity, “we might hear of these events, so that we may have some idea of why, precisely, we have been invited.”
“Of course, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald. “Shall I begin?”
“Please do, my dear,” replied her husband. “We are in no disagreement as to the facts, and you will tell the story so much better than I.”
Low and Holmes both leaned back in their chairs; Low with his hands clasped behind his head, Holmes with his fingers steepled in front of him and his eyes half-closed. I settled back into my own chair as Mrs. Fitzgerald began her tale.
“As you gentlemen know, we have not lived here very long. My family comes from Warwickshire, and I longed to return here, and when we heard that Lufford Abbey was available — well, we fairly jumped at the opportunity. It did not take us long to realize that there was considerable ill-feeling in the village towards the previous owner, about whom we knew little more than that he had died, suddenly, while on holiday in France, and that in the absence of next of kin his house and effects were being sold. We attended the sale of his possessions, as did many of the people from the immediate neighborhood; largely, I suspect, in order to
see the house for themselves, as the late owner had guarded his privacy to a quite extraordinary extent, and had not been known for his hospitality towards his neighbors. There was also, I believe, some talk of great treasures in the house, although nothing that was sold struck us as being deserving of that name.
“When Mr. Karswell’s things had been disposed of we were, quite naturally, anxious to take up residence, but events conspired to make this impossible. The house, while in good repair for the most part, needed a certain amount of work done to it, particularly the rooms in which it was apparent that Mr. Karswell chiefly lived. He appeared to have kept a dog, or dogs, and they had scratched quite badly at the paneling in one of the rooms, so much so that it needed to be replaced. Some of the furnishings, too, proved difficult to dispose of; more than one person who had purchased items had a change of mind after the event, and declined to remove them, so in the end we kept one or two of the larger pieces and disposed of the rest as best we could.”
“And the workmen, my dear; do not forget them.”
Mrs. Fitzgerald shuddered. “How could I forget? We had no end of difficulty with the workmen we had employed to carry out the repairs. What should have been a very straightforward piece of work, according to the man who was in charge, became fraught with difficulty. Some of the men took to turning up late, or not at all, and there were delays with some of the materials, and scarcely a day went by without some accident or other. Oh, they were very minor things, we were assured, but troubling nonetheless, and at one point it seemed the work would never be completed. At last we resorted to offering a larger sum than initially negotiated, and eventually all was finished and we were able to take up residence.”
“One moment,” said Low, at the same time that Holmes interjected with “A question, if I may.” The two detectives looked at each other; then Low smiled and waved his hand towards my friend. “Please, Mr. Holmes.”
Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 8
