She started at the name.
‘You know this Clarion, then?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ She shifted uneasily and carefully pulled up a tartan lap rug. She tucked it around her legs, shifting to stare at the fire. Finally, she turned to me with a searching gaze. ‘Before I tell you the story, Dr Watson, I must confirm something. You are a remarkable spinner of tales. Is Sherlock Holmes the white knight you portray?’
I felt myself colouring. ‘I may alter names and places and summarize, but regarding Mr Holmes, I write the truth, Mrs Simpson. He is a man of honour. He lives for his work, and in the service of justice.’
She nodded, smiling.
‘He does not think of himself as any kind of hero, however,’ I added.
She smiled. ‘Truly? No vanity, then?’
‘Well, no hubris, at least. Vanity, well …’
She laughed. ‘You confirm my picture of the young man that I knew.’
‘I am not here to pry, Mrs Simpson, but—’
She smiled at this. ‘Of course not. Let me ask you something else if I may. Mr Sherlock Holmes is still a very private man, is he not? Ah, your face gives me your answer. And yet you love your friend. That is why you are here.’
I had begun to feel quite warm in the little room. I was sitting too close to the fire and shifted my position on the couch. I felt a bead of perspiration on my brow and wiped it quickly.
‘I would do anything to protect him, Mrs Simpson. Our present case is puzzling in the extreme, and has proven quite dangerous. What happened at Camford?’
‘Do you know of Charlotte Simpson?’
‘No, ma’am, I have not heard the name.’
‘Charlotte was my granddaughter.’
‘Was?’
‘She died some years ago. At the age of nineteen.’
‘I am sorry to hear it. May I ask how?’
Here the lady paused and replaced her teacup in its saucer. She stared at me with piercing eyes.
‘Some say she was murdered. And some say she was murdered by Mr Sherlock Holmes.’
CHAPTER 37
Charlotte
put my teacup down, my hands having grown suddenly unsteady. Her words echoed those of Dr Jennings. That is not possible,’ I said.
‘Oh Dr Watson, I know that he did not murder my Charlotte. My granddaughter, God rest her soul, was found hanging from a ceiling fixture in the salon of a house where she rented a room. The police ruled her death a suicide at the inquest, but many think this was a result of cruel treatment by Sherlock Holmes.’
‘He is not a cruel man,’ I said. ‘He can be insensitive at times, but—’
The old lady smiled at me. ‘I know.’
‘How on earth could he be suspected of causing a suicide?’
‘They had formed a close friendship and he broke things off with her just before her death. Charlotte was vulnerable to spells of melancholy, you see.’
‘But what of the evidence? Did Charlotte leave a suicide note?’
‘Apparently, and the police took it. It has since vanished.’
I glanced at my teacup and left it on the table. My mind was reeling.
‘Are you familiar with a man called Orville St John?’ asked Mrs Simpson. ‘Ah, I see that you are. Yes, the man with the missing tongue. Have you met Mr St John?’
‘Yes, but I understand little. Please continue.’
She paused. ‘Let me begin. Evidence against your friend, Sherlock Holmes regarding Charlotte’s death was compelling but circumstantial, and insufficient to convict. He got off with being expelled from Camford. But many believed in his guilt.’
As the fire nearby burned low, this woman began a tale that I would be hard pressed to relate verbatim. I will admit to waves of emotion upon hearing it, and begged leave to take out a small writing pad and make notes, lest I forget any part of it. This, then, is what I learned.
Charlotte Simpson was Agnes Simpson’s granddaughter. Charlotte had been a pupil at Briar Rose, a school for girls near Fettes in Edinburgh, and had shown an astonishing aptitude for mathematics, science, and history. A precocious reader as a child, quiet and reserved by nature, she also displayed a prodigious musical talent. Had she been a man, and had she lived, the aged Mrs Simpson related, she would most certainly have been a scientist, a doctor, or a university professor. There was no limit to her intellect.
As she spoke, the lady’s face took on a faraway look, her features softening. ‘Charlotte could have had the world at her feet. But—’
Her voice broke and her eyes filled with tears. She quickly looked down at her cup of tea. She took a deep breath and resumed, her voice back to its prior crisp tone.
‘Charlotte was hampered by one serious flaw. It runs in our family – her father, my son Philip, suffered severely from it, as did my own father. Myself to a lesser degree. That flaw was a melancholy nature, marked by periods of deep depression. It is a fearsome disadvantage, particularly at a young age, when the black dog can seem permanent and insurmountable. Later, if one is lucky, one can learn to muzzle the dog, and one finds one’s personal remedies. I have done so, as have others in our line.’
I wondered briefly at this lady’s words. I was tempted to ask what her personal ‘remedies’ were. Apparently my thoughts were as transparent to Mrs Simpson as they were to Holmes, and she smiled. ‘Reading, work, and helping others. That is what fortifies me. You might suggest these to your friend, though as to the latter, he is already doing so. It was clear from Charlotte’s letters to me that she and her young friend Sherlock Holmes had this in common.’
‘Please tell me what happened. These letters? May I see them?’ I asked. If there were letters written by this young lady that would shed light on her relationship with my friend, I was seized with a sudden intense desire to read them.
‘You will read them shortly, Dr Watson. First I must give you the background. And eventually we will come to the events of 1875.’
I sat back, grasping at patience.
‘You mentioned August Bell Clarion,’ said she.
‘Why, yes! I know little more than that he and Holmes met at Fettes and both went on to Camford. But he was a monster in the making by all accounts.’
The lady smiled, but her eyes held great sadness. ‘Indeed. It is interesting that you use that word. August Bell Clarion was the grandson of my brother, and second cousin to Charlotte. And yes, he also attended Camford with Mr Holmes.’
Something unpleasant shifted in the pit of my stomach. ‘He is dead, I understand.’
‘Yes. Killed in the Sudan some time ago at El Obeid, shortly after joining the military, apparently. The family received word of his death but no details. And now to the tale regarding the terrible events at Camford.’
I decided against recounting what I had discovered about Clarion’s fate at Khartoum, and sat poised with pen in hand.
‘As you know,’ she began, ‘women still, to this day may not graduate from our finer universities although they may attend classes. In 1875, even this was quite the exception. But my granddaughter Charlotte was granted the rare privilege to sit in on some of the lectures at Camford. This was only at the individual lecturer’s discretion, provided she sat quietly in the back, and did not speak or distract others.
‘Chemistry was her passion and that lecturer would not allow her in. This led to an action she later regretted, but also to her friendship with Sherlock Holmes. To understand what happened between them, you must first read these.’ She turned to the girl. ‘The letters, Aline.’
Mrs Simpson stood and nodded to the young girl who dashed up the stairs and returned carrying a faded, decorative candy box, which she placed on a table before me. It was about 8 by 10 inches and the words ‘Finest chocolates’ was barely legible in gilded letters, surrounded by a wreath of flowers.
‘Open it,’ she said. ‘I will leave you to this and return in a little while.’
She and the girl left the room. I moved my chair closer to the fire and the
gas lamp near it and opened the box. Inside was a stack of letters. A few were on plain white stationery, written in black ink. I recognized my friend’s handwriting, and they were addressed to Miss Charlotte Simpson. But the majority were on delicate tan stationery written in an unusual brown ink with a graceful hand. These were from Charlotte to her grandmother. The letters were arranged chronologically.
Charlotte’s letters were articulate, witty, and personal. As I read them I heard the voice of an admirable young woman, well read and curious, a bit rebellious but passionate about learning above all. I was struck with sadness, knowing her tragic end.
The first to her grandmother related her thrill at being accepted to attend classes at Camford. She described in detail her inspiration from the science classes, but also her excitement about the cultural resources – the art galleries, the museums, and the concerts, all part of the constellation of a great university.
Her male colleagues’ reactions to her ranged from grudging acceptance to outright hostility. ‘But mostly, Grandmamma, they simply disdain me,’ she wrote. ‘Fortunately I do not care. I am determined to be a chemist.’ I had no doubt that she would have achieved her goal.
She mentioned her annoying cousin August Bell Clarion and his insistent attempts to spend time with her, in the company of his handsome friend Orville St John. ‘It is almost as though August covets me himself, despite our family ties, and yet he seems to press his friend upon me as well. I suspect he would love to see us fall in love, only to ruin it. Oh, yes, August is a monster, I am convinced. But fear not, Grandmamma, I have no desire to pair up with anyone, even though August’s latest candidate, Mr Orville St John, is very handsome and well spoken. This young man professes to admire my intelligence, though I perceive his ardour would diminish were I to actually sit beside him in some class.
‘In any case, Mr Orville St John is overly solicitous and, in the final analysis, not intelligent enough,’ she wrote. ‘Nor am I sure I would ever want a husband!’
A second letter related that Mr St John had taken to sending flowers and gifts of food to her meagre lodgings in the town. ‘I am afraid he somehow feels himself encouraged and I must put a stop to that! Peanut says I should make myself unattractive but I think she simply wants to see what I look like with my hair a mess and an ugly dress, the imp! The direct approach is best and I shall let him down this weekend, at the very latest. It is kindest in the long run.’
I wondered who ‘Peanut’ might be and deduced a young female friend or relative.
Shortly after that letter came a sharp turn in her narrative.
‘Disaster, Grandmamma! My hubris has ruined all. The lecturer in the organic chemistry class I so desired refused to let me attend, and so I disguised myself as a boy, thinking to sit in the back, but I was discovered. One of the boys pulled off my cap and the game was up. Only it is not a game to me, and I am bereft. Two other lecturers have now banned me from attending their classes as well, in solidarity with the first!
‘I find myself in a pit, Grandmamma, wondering if life will ever offer up its riches to me, or if I am destined to be only someone’s wife, someone’s mother, with no science or intellectual challenge in my future. Oh – I am not criticising your choices. You had even fewer chances and have sharpened your mind through reading. But after my intoxicating taste of university life – oh, it is all too bleak. I am in despair and have spent two days in bed.’
A short note followed. ‘Grandmamma, please be assured that I am recovering. Yes, the black dog we both know came upon me, but I am resourceful and resilient, as you have taught me. I hope to write to you soon with good news.’
In the following letter she mentioned another young man, whom she did not immediately name. He was not as obviously attractive as Mr St John. ‘He is perhaps too thin and intense to be thought handsome. But it is his mind that I find intriguing. He has a chilly exterior but underneath is a kind spirit. And here is the good news I had hoped to convey. This young man has agreed to bring me books and classroom notes since he is in several of the classes from which I have been barred. This is no small thing, Grandmamma. We are meeting in secret, and he risks expulsion if we are thought to be too much alone together or intimate. The school is very strict on such matters.’
Of course, this ‘young man’ was Sherlock Holmes.
‘He is most business-like and proper,’ Charlotte wrote later, ‘and devoid of any hint of flirtation, but I adore his courtesy and sly sense of humour. He has dark grey eyes with a touch of green, the colour of the sea under a storm. And there is something quite thrilling about the way his mind works.’
She continued by recounting details of his clever machinations to supply her with needed materials, and began teasingly to refer to ‘Sherpa Holmes’ for his willingness to traverse dangerous territory, carry copious baggage – not only class notes but many books as well. ‘He responds to every request, Grandmamma, while maintaining a remarkably unruffled equilibrium. You see, I read the books you sent. I particularly loved the Marcus Aurelius, and I shared it with him.
‘I suppose other young women might desire to awaken emotion in him, but I understand that his detachment is probably a cover for a deeply emotional nature, and comes at a high cost. I respect that and do not push. We connect so completely on scholarly matters, I would never dare to risk that which is so precious to me.’
I paused at that letter. I had come to the same conclusion about Holmes’s nature myself, but that was after living with the man. That a nineteen-year-old girl with limited contact understood Holmes so completely was startling. But then, women have often surprised me in this way.
At this point in the chronology, Holmes’s notes to Charlotte began and soon became frequent. I will not recount them here as most were nothing but plans about where and when to meet and discussions of chemistry. His tone was pleasant but always formal and the notes quite brief.
However, a late one caught my attention. It read: ‘Miss Simpson, as it is raining and quite frigid, we should surely meet indoors. I know a small pub nearby where I am friendly with the proprietor and we may be assured of privacy in a back room. Perhaps there I can assist you with your chemical conundrums and we may discuss the assignment at our leisure. In addition, they serve a much-admired Sunday roast. Will you join me at four o’clock this Sunday?’
Charlotte wrote to her grandmother on the Monday following: ‘Grandmamma, something wonderful has happened. Mr Holmes invited me to dinner and we spent four very lovely hours together yesterday at a private room in The Spotted Dragon. Now, do not be alarmed. It was innocent, yet I sense that the tectonic plates in his world have shifted ever so slightly. He did or said nothing that could be construed as romantic. And yet I am quite, well nearly, confident that his eyes lingered just a moment longer on mine. And our hands touched briefly. I cannot be assured it was not an accident, but still. Do not worry, Grandmamma. All is proper and you can remain assured of my integrity.’
Their following notes remained formal and succinct and Charlotte did not indicate anything further until two weeks later.
‘Grandmamma. It is nearly Christmas and I cannot wait to see you and talk of university and reading and life. I have exciting news, although I will admit it is a slender thread. Yesterday was my last meeting with Mr Holmes before the holidays, and I presented him with a fruitcake and a long cravat which I knitted for him against the cold. He was surprised and seemed embarrassed. For a moment I thought it was because he had nothing for me, but I expected nothing, he has been the soul of generosity throughout the term and it is I who owe him.
‘But to my surprise he pulled from his satchel a package wrapped in silver paper. It contained the most beautiful scarf I have ever seen. It is French chiffon, a delicate electric blue with very particular red, peach, and cream flowers, and very long and sheer. The colours are perfect for me, and those I most favour. He must have taken notice of this. So few men see colour, and when I complimented him on his artistic choice, he mentio
ned that his grandmother was the sister of the artist Vernet.
‘I will admit, dear Grandmamma, that on impulse, I kissed his cheek and he turned as red as the roses on the scarf. It was funny! But do not worry, things went no further. I shall discuss this with you at length at Christmas.’
The letters stopped, presumably for the holidays, then resumed in January. It was shortly thereafter that another disaster befell poor Charlotte.
‘Grandmamma, cousin August has once again inserted himself into my life. Somehow he has discovered my connection to Mr Holmes, whom he describes as a freakish hermit who has been ostracised at school for blowing up the chemistry laboratory. I happen to know he did not blow up the laboratory, but only a small part of it. August says no one will share a room with Mr Holmes, which I am certain suits him just as well.
‘But August discovered a letter I had written to Mr Holmes, and while you and I know that this is perfectly innocent, August says he will not fail to make the case that Mr Holmes has been inappropriate, and has been taking advantage of me. This even at the expense of my reputation!
‘Grandmamma, I ask you, how could this fiend be related to us? Apparently he and Mr Holmes have been sworn enemies since both attended Fettes. I had no idea. But my instinct to keep my activities with Sherlock Holmes a secret was correct. My friend will now face expulsion, and all because of me. I never mention August to anyone because frankly I am ashamed of my kinship with that awful young man. Oh, what shall I do?
‘Can you help me, please? Have a word with August’s father, perhaps? Though I fear nothing will stop this villain. I do not hesitate to call him that. Frankly, Grandmamma, I feel a chill each time he is near and make sure never to be alone with him. The horror! Please, please do what you can.’
Several days passed. Then came this letter from Charlotte. ‘It is in the deepest despair that I take up my pen today. Forgive my terseness, for I have not the energy to offer much. I received an angry, well, no, a cold letter from Mr Sherlock Holmes yesterday, severing all ties. He has been suspended from university for fraternizing with me, with expulsion threatened. Mr Holmes writes that had he known of my relation with August, he would have taken care, and could have averted this disaster. How, I do not know. But he further chides me for keeping this from him and writes “this deception was unworthy, and hardly the basis for the kind of friendship you so clearly desire. You will not be seeing me again.”
Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder Page 31
