‘My reply to him was returned unopened. August has done his work.
‘Mr Holmes is right to put distance between us. I feel our friendship was doomed from the start. What I do not know is if he has been lied to by August, who is capable of saying just anything, or if he simply despises me for keeping my family relationship to his nemesis a secret. Truly I do not know! But who knows what August has told him? If Mr Holmes thinks me duplicitous, I simply cannot bear it. I meant no harm, only to shield him from one who hurts nearly everyone he touches. I am bereft. Not only have I lost my university connections, but my dearest friend, for that is what Mr Holmes has been to me. Pity me, Grandmamma, I fear I am finished.’
There were no more letters.
The candle next to me had burned low as I set this last letter down. The sense of loss was palpable. It was a terribly sad fork in the road for two young people, I thought, knowing the future of both. A small noise nearby caused me to look up. The little girl had re-entered the room and now regarded me steadily. ‘You are crying,’ she said.
‘Of course not,’ said I, rubbing my eyes. ‘Just eye strain from so much reading.’
She nodded sagely and fetched her grandmother.
‘Where is Sherlock Holmes’s note to Charlotte?’ I asked the lady. ‘The one that caused her so much grief? Shouldn’t it be here? And her suicide note?’ I asked.
‘Charlotte’s suicide note was taken by the police. And as for Sherlock Holmes’s letter to Charlotte, it was here, at one time,’ said the old lady. ‘I believe Peanut took it. And probably still has it. Everyone in our family thought Charlotte killed herself as a direct result of his last letter. Everyone but me, that is.’
‘Who is Peanut? What did the letter say?’
‘Peanut was a younger cousin, who idolized Charlotte. They were very close. As to the letter, it was curt, and as she described. I could see why it would have pained her deeply. But it was understandable, given the circumstances.’
‘But why did the family immediately think of suicide?’ I asked.
‘Well, the family inferred, and I think this originated with August, that Mr Holmes had taken advantage of Charlotte, and had relations with her. He said that Mr Holmes destroyed her honour, perhaps with a false promise of marriage.’
‘It would be far out of character for him,’ I said.
‘And for Charlotte as well. But people love to gossip and believe the worst in others,’ said the lady.
‘Mrs Simpson, I must ask you something. What happened to Charlotte’s early suitor, Mr Orville St John? In London, not long ago, he attempted to kill Mr Holmes three times.’
Mrs Simpson paled. ‘He tried to kill Mr Holmes? It was my understanding that the unfortunate Mr St John had a successful business and marriage. I was told he had put that terrible affair behind him,’ said she.
‘But what was the terrible affair? And is it connected to Charlotte’s death?’
The lady sighed. ‘Yes. And it is a grim tale,’ she said. ‘You are aware of Mr St John’s heinous accident?’
‘Only that the poor man is missing his tongue.’
‘Did you know that Mr Holmes and he were involved in a bloody boxing match in a pub only minutes before this tragedy befell him?’
‘No, I did not!’ said I.
‘The details were related to me by August, which of course means they are not completely reliable. However, everything that took place in the pub is a matter of public record. Here, then, is Mr St John’s sad story.’
CHAPTER 38
Golden Bear and Silver Tongue
s Mrs Simpson began to relate this second part of the tale, young Aline tended to the fire and brought us hot whisky-laced tea. The damp Scottish air had seeped in and around our legs and I shivered. The gas lamps and candles sent flickering lights on the walls and I could not dispel the oppressive feeling of tragedy which had begun to pervade the room.
Mrs Simpson began. ‘The Golden Bear was one of the pubs favoured by students at Camford. Apparently, your friend did not regularly frequent pubs, nor drink to excess, but I can presume he was at that moment attempting to drown his sorrow at the loss of his friendship with Charlotte.’
‘But he broke it off with her himself,’ I exclaimed.
‘Dr Watson, you are not so far from your college days to forget how black and white the world is to young people. No doubt Mr Holmes himself felt very betrayed. At that moment he did not know of her death, only that he had rather precipitously broken things off with her, and he was probably filled with regret. In any case, he was drinking heavily.
‘And so your despairing friend sat at the Golden Bear drinking alone and in very dark spirits, when August and Orville entered. Mr St John had just been told of Charlotte’s death by August, who placed the blame squarely on Mr Holmes’s “mistreatment”. He made Orville St John believe that Sherlock Holmes had destroyed her honour, leading to her suicide. Orville was devastated by this news.
‘And now, suddenly sitting before him, was the culprit! Orville and Sherlock came to blows and the drunken student crowd was apparently titillated by the action and began shouting for a match. The situation threatened to turn deadly.’
‘My God! Were the police called?’ I asked.
‘No. It was the pub’s policy to refrain from calling the police.’
‘Why?’
‘The Golden Bear attracted many students from the university. They were a boisterous crowd, young and fearless, and they drank heavily to relieve the pressures of their education and family expectations. Fisticuffs and even more violent mayhem were not unheard of. And so the owner devised a kind of protocol in place to handle such moments. It had served beautifully until that night.’
‘What protocol?’
‘There was a secret back room known as the “steam room.” It was set up as an impromptu boxing arena. Students would have a go at each other and bets were placed, but the fights were broken up before any real harm. It was an illegal practice but tacitly allowed by the community. It kept many a window unbroken and gave the students a relatively harmless and very contained outlet for their aggressions.’
‘I see,’ said I, thinking I might have benefited from such an arrangement myself upon occasion as a younger man. And perhaps even now, recalling the hard right I had once dealt to Holmes’s French rival Vidocq.
‘Well, both your friend and Orville St John were recognized as members of the boxing team, and the crowd apparently screamed for a match. I am told your friend resisted but the crowd closed ranks and forced the issue. The proprietor later told the police that had he known the degree of animosity between the combatants, he would never have allowed the match.’
As Mrs Simpson continued her story, I felt a chill running down my spine that was unaffected by the warm fire now burning in her grate. I glanced up and saw the small girl, still in the shadows in one corner of the room. Her eyes gleamed with interest as she listened to the tale.
‘The child?’ said I, nodding in the girl’s direction.
‘Aline knows,’ said she, and turned back to her story. ‘This match grew serious and bloody quite quickly. My great-nephew August related to me that your friend was far more skilled than his rival Orville St John, and that St John appeared to be so blinded by rage against Mr Holmes that his furious attack grew out of control. Mr Holmes easily got the best of him.
‘Orville and August had many friends in the audience, and your friend apparently none – no, Dr Watson, not a one – and while the cheering began one sided against Mr Holmes, your friend’s skill and gentlemanly fair play won admiration and eventually the favour of the crowd.’
I could well imagine this.
‘St John found himself downed repeatedly, and to his great embarrassment, each time was helped back up by Mr Holmes who remained courteous throughout.’
‘Seeing that his friend was losing, August said he then stepped in to break up the fight but as the two combatants were drawn to opposite sides of the room by sever
al students each, St John broke free and in some kind of fit, drew a knife from his pocket, and attempted to stab your friend in the back! But young Mr Holmes sensed this and sidestepped it, managing easily to remove the knife from Orville’s hand.
‘The crowd, shocked by St John’s cowardly act, now cheered Mr Holmes. My great-nephew and two others restrained St John. That young man, realizing he was physically beaten and that the tide of public opinion had turned against him, then pulled out his greatest weapon.
‘You may not know that Orville St John was known at Camford as “The Silver Tongue”. A remarkable debater, he was so skilled at rhetoric, and so dynamic and persuasive a speaker, that – coupled with his tall and handsome demeanour – he was said to possess the power to separate a starving man from a banquet, or to part the sea at his command.
‘He began with an apology to Sherlock Holmes for the knife attack, painting himself as a man overcome with grief. He appealed to the decency and fair play of the crowd. As he felt their judgement soften, he explained his mad act. Orville St John implied that Sherlock Holmes had kicked his dog—’
‘That is preposterous,’ I said.
‘Yes, well apparently your friend had been bitten severely the year before by another student’s dog, but in any case, he continued by saying that this “monster” Sherlock Holmes had since done something far worse. He had so deceived a young lady, that this sweet young girl, barely nineteen, had killed herself over it!
‘Sherlock Holmes fell back at this. He did not know until that moment of Charlotte’s death. August then stepped forward to tell everyone that he had found the body and the suicide note which blamed Sherlock Holmes.
‘The drunken crowd went mad, and fell upon your friend, who at this point was so stunned by the news that he could barely defend himself. He somehow escaped into a back alley, running for his life.
‘Where he went from there, no one knows. He was not seen at his lodgings that night or the next day. Although the police reported that later that night someone of his description attempted to enter the house where Charlotte died, but was prevented by the police who had cordoned off the area pending their investigation.’
Of course he went there, I thought. He would have tried to learn the truth. ‘Do you know if he succeeded in getting in eventually?’ I asked.
‘I am not sure. Buoyed by an apparent win, Orville and August were toasted by the crowd, but the victory was a bitter and empty one, for the grieving Orville St John could not bear to linger. He, too, was bereft at the death of the young woman he loved, and was not in his right mind. Despite the pleadings of August, Orville St John left the pub only minutes later.
‘After ten minutes or so, August Bell Clarion also left the pub alone claiming he needed to find and comfort his friend. As Holmes and St John did before him, August left by the back door which led down the alley.’
Mrs Simpson turned to the girl. ‘Aline, now you must leave us, dear.’ As soon as the child had gone, she continued, in a hushed voice. ‘While the events at the pub have been corroborated, from here on out, we must rely entirely on the testimony of my great-nephew, whom I know to have been a duplicitous man.
‘Three streets away, he says he discovered the unconscious form of his friend Orville St John lying senseless on the pavement, face down, a pool of blood forming around his head. Turning his friend over, August discovered a horror that made him retch in the street. St John’s tongue had been cut from its moorings with his own knife, and forced down his throat; he was near death from shock and loss of blood.
‘August said he next grabbed a hot coal from a chestnut peddler, and cauterised the wound, saving St John’s life, and then summoned help. St John was removed immediately to the hospital where doctors managed pull him back from the brink. When he finally regained his senses the next day, only August Bell Clarion, who had never left his side, was in the room. My great-nephew had been sleeping in a chair next to the bed and he related the following to the police and to the family.
‘When St John awoke and discovered his ghastly situation, he attempted to jump out of the window of the third floor room where he had been placed. But August was able to stop him. The police arrived to question the traumatised young man, but St John was unable to help. He had been struck on the back of the head in the alley and had not seen his attacker. But he believed with certainty that Holmes was the culprit.’
My stomach turned at this tale, the horror of this attack affecting even my war hardened sensibilities. And yet I knew with equal certainty that it could not have been Sherlock Holmes who did the deed.
Mrs Simpson continued: ‘Mr Holmes was finally found a day and a half later. He had been wandering alone in the countryside, with no witnesses, had not eaten or slept, and appeared shocked at the news of Orville St John’s catastrophe.
‘Of course he was suspected of the crime and arrested, thus thwarting any investigation he might have done on his own into the incident. His involvement could not be proved, however, and some small bits of evidence, gathered I believe by his own brother, then a rising young barrister in London, ultimately cast doubt on Sherlock’s guilt.’
‘Mycroft! What evidence?’
‘The pattern of blood on August’s coat, the testimony of the chestnut seller on the description of the man who attacked St John from behind. These saved the day, although, various pieces of evidence including the coat later vanished from the police station and the chestnut seller recanted his story. August had done his work.’
‘I wonder how he got the man to recant?’ I asked.
The lady eyed me sharply. ‘Do you know the story of Clarion Hall, at Fettes?’
‘Oh yes, of course. I presume, then, that his parents bought his freedom.’
She nodded. ‘It appears so. But Sherlock Holmes was also freed. Character witnesses included the assistant headmaster from Fettes, an influential tutor at Camford, and a fellow student, Victor Trevor.’
‘And the tutor?’
‘Mathematician. I forget; an Irish name. But I believe the rest you know.’
I sat there, stunned for some minutes. Mrs Simpson watched me with a sad but peaceful regard. Eventually I found my voice.
‘I know for certain that Sherlock Holmes did not do this to Orville St John. He would never do such a thing.’ said I.
‘Drunk and overcome with grief, as he was supposed to have been, it was suggested that—’
‘No. Never.’
Mrs Simpson nodded, and was silent for a long time. A deadly calm settled over me. I now knew the origin of St John’s vendetta and that it went far beyond his own horrible maiming to the death of a very special young woman. I resolved to do something, somehow to bring this terrible tale to a conclusion, and to clear my friend’s name once and for all. I wondered, however, why St John’s rage against my friend had lain dormant for so long, and was only recently revived.
‘Mrs Simpson, since you do not believe that Charlotte killed herself over Sherlock Holmes, what do you think happened?’
‘I think she was murdered.’
‘But by whom?’
Mrs Simpson did not reply, but looked at me pointedly. Finally she said, ‘As to disbelieving her suicide, I am in the minority. It is true she was deeply upset. But I did not think her as fragile as all that. It is my belief, that with a few wise words, those two … well, at least Charlotte, might have … oh, it is no use speculating. Your Mr Holmes, I understand, has remained a bachelor.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He abjures any notion of romance as being detrimental to his work.’
‘He has not grown to despise women, I hope?’
‘Not at all. He is the soul of courtesy and respect. Kindness, even. But it is my belief that he does not fully understand them, and, well, he is not forthcoming on the subject.’
‘Pity. This sad conflagration was a triple tragedy in a sense. Charlotte, Orville St John, and even your Mr Holmes was not unscathed.’
I stood up, distraught and feeling the n
eed for action. I was not sure that anything I had learned would help our current case. Instead, I felt only that I had further transgressed my friend’s privacy, along with a vague sense of unease about leaving him alone at Braedern. I decided to return, no matter what he might say about it.
‘Mrs Simpson, I am grateful for your time and hospitality and frankness. I must leave you now. I am still not sure what to make of this story. Perhaps if I saw his note to her. Or this suicide note—’
‘Yes, well, for some time Peanut carried with her Mr Holmes’s note to Charlotte. It became an obsession. I hope she is over it and threw it out long ago.’
Could there be another enemy to Holmes, lying dormant somewhere, now a grown woman?
‘Who is “Peanut”?’ I asked. ‘And where is she now?’
Mrs Simpson sighed. ‘She was Charlotte’s younger cousin, twelve at the time. She even resembled her idol in both temperament and looks, though with darker hair. Spent every spare moment with her. Intelligent, too, and—’
‘But what became of “Peanut”?’ I cried, an urgency rising within me.
Mrs Simpson continued at her own pace. ‘She was devastated at the death. She was the first to find the body, in fact. They made her give her account at the trial, young as she was.’
I had to find this girl. ‘Did she, too, blame Holmes?’
‘Yes. Children, even clever ones, think simplistically. But she was, and I presume still is, a rational girl.’
‘Where is she now?’ I had grabbed my coat and was putting it on. Aline stood by with my muffler.
Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder Page 32
