by Amy Thomas
“Yes,” The Woman answered, twining her fingers together. “I’ve something to tell you that may change things considerably. When you left today, my intention was to ascertain why Julia’s father, Charles Stevenson, was present at the examination of Phillimore’s body. I found Julia at her parents’ home, and her reaction to my question was so strong as to be bizarre. I have since learned from her visit and her husband’s the reason for her behaviour, but it relates to our investigation much more than I’d realised.”
Irene took a deep breath, as if for dramatic emphasis. “James Phillimore was the father of Julia’s child.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes, not begrudging The Woman her moment of triumph. “That puts certain discoveries of mine in their proper places.”
“Yes?” she said, leaning forward.
“Edith Phillimore was as forthright as I expected once she knew she had been found out. She readily corroborated the fact that Charles the rabbit was a messenger between her and her husband. She also told me the reason for her husband’s flight, the fact that he had been blackmailed by Dr Clarke.”
“I can’t believe that,” said Irene immediately.
“Your skepticism is to your credit in this case,” said the detective. “Fortunately, I have known Dr Clarke for many years, and I found the idea of him extorting money based on a rumour about someone’s illegitimate origins beyond credibility. I went to see him, and he put the idea to rest.”
“So Edith was lying once again?” said Irene, incredulous.
“No, I think not,” said Holmes. “I believe she herself was deceived by her husband.”
“That certainly harmonises with the picture of his character that Julia provided,” Irene added.
“After hearing your additions to the story,” the detective continued, “I believe that Phillimore was desperate after finding out about Julia’s pregnancy and concocted a story to convince his wife to help him disappear. We have no way of knowing if he ever actually intended for his wife and child to join him.”
“Disgusting,” said The Woman, repugnance written all over her beautiful face.
“Quite,” said Holmes, “though he does seem to have had real affection for Eliza.”
“What does this mean for the case?” asked Irene after a moment of silence.
Instead of answering, the detective went to the door of the cottage. “I hear footsteps approaching,” he said.
“Mrs Turner should be returning from the shops now,” said Irene.
“No,” said the detective, “the footfall is heavier.”
“Why not open the door and see which of us is correct?” said The Woman, slightly exasperated. Holmes did so, and a burst of wet wind entered the house, along with a ruddy man wearing a luxurious moustache.
“Hello, Holmes and Miss Adler,” said Watson, and he looked past his friend to nod to Irene, who had risen and was surveying both men with surprise.
“Welcome, Dr Watson. I’m sorry we didn’t anticipate your arrival,” she answered.
“It’s no matter,” said the doctor, “I suppose my telegram didn’t make it to you.”
“I’m afraid not,” she answered. “The office in the village is not always reliable.”
“Then please accept my apology for my importunate arrival,” answered Watson gallantly. “Miss Willow,” he added, looking up at his tall flatmate, “has eloped with a curate. I certainly hope it was fully her own doing and not assisted by the machinations of anyone else.”
“Your implication does me dishonour,” Holmes answered, but he could hear The Woman inelegantly smothering a laugh in the background.
“Please do settle in, and I’ll make a pot of tea,” she said, gliding into the kitchen and leaving the two men alone. Watson took his small suitcase and black doctor’s bag into the guest room next to his friend’s, then rejoined Holmes in the sitting room.
“I’m glad you’ve come, Watson,” said the detective, relaxing on his winged throne. “I’ve grown so accustomed to your ever-faithful presence that I find your absence more inconvenient than ever.”
Watson smiled. “And I, I’ll admit, find London dreadfully dull without a case to keep me occupied. I’m afraid you’ve acclimated me to your ways, old friend. How is the Phillimore disappearance progressing?”
“As often happens,” Holmes answered, “the disappearance has become a murder. The interesting feature of this particular case, however, is that a certain amount of proof exists that the disappearance happened significantly before the murder. In other words, the man did not disappear because he was murdered; rather, the murder took place at an as-yet-undetermined time afterward.”
“I do,” Holmes continued, “find myself in need of your particular speciality.”
“What sort of speciality?” Watson asked curiously. “I have my revolver.”
“Not that,” the detective rejoined. “One of your more delicate specialties. I need you to worm your way into the heart, as it were, of the Phillimores’ sour-tempered cook.”
Watson huffed resignedly. “If you’re certain. What sort of information are you seeking?” Holmes spent the next ten minutes giving his friend an overview of the case, a process that felt nearly as natural as breathing, so often had he done it.
Irene finally returned with a tray and sat down next to Watson on the sofa. “I confess, Holmes,” she said, “that I am in the dark as to our next logical step.”
“In general,” the detective answered, “we must find the missing link between the murder and the association between James Phillimore and Julia Rayburn. There can hardly fail to be one. In particular, I wish to know what Mrs Merriwether knows, which friend Watson will find out for us.”
“Do you want me to tell Edith that her husband was a philandering liar?” asked The Woman, spitting the words out with distaste.
“Soon,” Holmes replied. “First things first; I wish to examine the notes made by Dr Clarke, who viewed the body right after it was found.”
“You didn’t view it yourself?” asked Watson incredulously.
“Unfortunately,” said Holmes, “I was obstructed by the presence of an Inspector Graves, whom you may remember as an assistant to our friend Lestrade.”
“Unpleasant,” said Watson, wrinkling his nose.
“Nevertheless,” said Holmes, “I have the doctor’s notes, which are nearly as thorough as my own would have been.”
“Goodness,” said Irene, looking up from her teacup, “high praise indeed.”
The detective looked at her coolly. “When I was a child, my parents sent me to Fulworth one summer to stay with a distant cousin. Dr Clarke, merely a medical assistant at the time, solved a highly sensational murder in Fulworth simply by viewing the corpse. I have rarely seen the equal of the performance. I read all his books that summer, hoping to absorb the ability.”
“The osmosis appears to have been successful,” answered The Woman, smiling.
“We share a certain similarity of mind,” Holmes replied, momentarily transported back to his youth, but forcing himself to return to the present immediately.
For the next half hour, The Woman and the doctor conversed quietly while Holmes read the sheaf of papers given to him by Dr Clarke. He was well aware that if Clarke had been somehow involved in the murder, then his information would have been compromised. After seeing the old man, however, he was convinced that it was not so. Furthermore, in the few moments he’d had in the room with the corpse, while his attention appeared to be focused on the distasteful Inspector Graves, he’d actually had time to make a few deductions of his own, which the doctor’s notes corroborated. That fact, coupled with the fact that he’d found Edith Phillimore’s story of the doctor’s involvement entirely preposterous, assured the detective that he could trust his old friend.
Sometime during Holmes’s perus
al, Mrs Turner arrived at the cottage laden with packages, which she nearly dropped upon beholding Watson. “Doctor,” she stammered, “what a surprise. Miss Adler didn’t inform me of your intention to visit, or I would have had something ready for you.” She looked severely upon Irene, who grinned back with, Holmes thought, perverse amusement.
“Please don’t trouble yourself,” said Watson, rising and taking the housekeeper’s hand. “Miss Adler didn’t know herself. I’d intended to stay in town to fulfil certain obligations, but they have since disappeared, and here I am.” Mrs Turner blushed and whisked away the tea tray Irene had produced, glaring down upon it as if she approved of neither its contents nor its arrangement.
“Sometimes,” said Irene, “she reminds me a great deal of a girls’ school headmistress.”
“Or headmaster,” said Watson. “I’ll wager she could do battle with either of the ones I experienced.”
“I love her for it,” said Irene quietly, and Holmes saw a soft look come over her. He was glad. Uniting The Woman and the housekeeper had been his own doing, based on his knowledge of each. He had done well, he thought with satisfaction. Not all of his cases were large ones. Sometimes he used his abilities in quieter ways, but he was no less satisfied when he succeeded.
That night, Watson and Mrs Turner went to bed before the detective and his hostess, as was the usual practise when the flatmates visited. Holmes was quiet, pondering the developments of the day and putting them into their proper places in his understanding of the case. From the evidence of his own trained eyes and Clarke’s notes, he was fully convinced that Phillimore had been killed somewhere other than the Oakhill premises and then dragged there by a particularly vindictive murderer or, perhaps, a vindictive accomplice. The placement of the corpse atop the ancestral carriage seemed particularly brazen, the work of someone who was fully convinced that he or she could not be caught or else didn’t care, instead wishing to make the strongest statement possible. It suggested a combination of hatred and an impression of power that intrigued Holmes and also perplexed him. As of yet, no one he’d considered had impressed him as having the proper temperament.
“Holmes, are you sure Edith is innocent?” asked Irene, breaking the silence after a very long time.
“Yes, I am,” said Holmes, “though I have considered at length how she might still be a viable suspect. However, I find the idea even more difficult to entertain than that of Peter Warren as the killer. For one, her whereabouts can be accounted for at significant moments. For another, we know that Phillimore was not killed until after he’d run away; for Edith to have subsequently killed him and then displayed his body for all to see would have been madness, and she is not insane. The one thing I find incredible is her willingness to believe her husband’s story of being blackmailed by Dr Clarke without seeing the letters he’d supposedly sent or any other proof whatsoever.”
“That part I comprehend,” said The Woman, staring into her long-cold tea. “When my husband first began to turn on me, to show me who he truly was, I couldn’t believe it. For months, I made excuses for his behaviour and deceived myself into thinking he would change and once again become the man I thought I’d married. I don’t know if it was my own pride, not wishing to admit that my judgement had been flawed, or a more altruistic inability to believe something so dreadful of someone I loved. Perhaps it was a combination of the two.”
“I wonder,” she continued, “if Edith suspected that something was wrong, but convinced herself that leaving the village would solve the problem. Or maybe she truly forced herself to believe, out of an inability to even bear to consider alternatives.”
“The human mind can be a ghastly thing,” Holmes observed. The Woman nodded in agreement.
“Good night, pointy detective,” she said then, rising and going to her room. Holmes didn’t go to bed that night. He’d never understood how other people could simply turn off their brains in the midst of deep thought, suspending their reasoning processes for hours while their bodies slept. Ever since he could remember, his way had been to think until his brain could think no more, to let the engine run itself out.
He was glad of Watson’s presence, but he realised with some measure of surprise that his moments with The Woman were not now as unlike his moments with the doctor as they once had been. Like his flatmate, she had become a friend and then an ally, a trusted listening ear and occasionally, a very useful associate. Her ways were different, but that did not make them unhelpful. He had missed Watson, but he had not been alone, and the realisation made him feel strangely comforted.
A little later a rakish young workman, with a goatee beard and a swagger, lit his clay pipe at the lamp before descending into the street.
- The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton
Chapter 11: Irene
When I awoke the following morning, I was filled with what I can only describe as a devilish sense of amusement. I loved having both Holmes and Watson in my house, endlessly amused by their affectionately barbed exchanges. Adding in Mrs Turner and her ways made for a ceaseless buffet of delights for me to savour.
I rose early to see to my bees, who also seemed to be in a buoyant state, though I suppose the impression was in my mind alone. Returning to the house, I found Holmes alone at the table, drinking coffee and going over his notebook. “I’ve told Watson that he must attempt to infiltrate the Oakhill Farm household today,” he said without looking up.
“How will he manage it?” I asked.
“I will be with him,” said Holmes, “but in a guise other than my own.”
“I see,” I answered. “What do you wish me to do?”
“Tell Edith the truth about her husband. Involve Dr Clarke if you must. We may need her help to catch the murderer, and I want to ensure her full cooperation before that happens.”
“I think, perhaps, the easiest way would be to produce Julia Rayburn,” I said. I wished I hadn’t, even though it was true.
“I agree,” said Holmes, “but I did not think you would be open to the idea of attempting it.”
“I believe it to be the only way of doing what you ask successfully,” I answered, feeling my joyful frame of mind evaporate as my thoughts grew darker.
Watson emerged then, looking as fresh as a gentleman on a country holiday. “I hope this is appropriate attire for the day, Holmes,” he said, standing at attention in the middle of the floor, as if he were undergoing a military inspection.
“Haven’t you brought anything shabbier?” Holmes asked critically.
“No,” said the doctor. “I didn’t come down with the object of insinuating myself into a farmhouse.”
“Very well,” groused Holmes.
“I - might have something that would be useful,” said the voice of my housekeeper from her vantage point in the kitchen doorway. “I’m afraid it’s below Dr Watson’s dignity, but I have some clothing that’s meant to be donated to the church.”
“Excellent,” said Holmes. “Bring the possibilities here, please.”
A surreal scene followed, in which Mrs Turner surrounded my friend with piles of dingy garments, as if he were a bird in a nest, while Watson and I looked on in amused amazement.
Holmes picked out an outfit worthy of a gardener or farm labourer, a grey shirt and brown trousers that looked as if they had seen much better days. “Here, Watson,” he said, “this is far more like it.”
The doctor took the clothing gingerly. “Well,” he mumbled, “I suppose it’s not the worst thing you’ve ever asked me to do.” Mrs Turner looked conflicted, pleased to have been helpful on the one hand, horrified at the impeachment of the doctor’s dignity on the other.
“Thank you, Mrs Turner,” I said quickly. “You’ve saved us.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Dr Watson, blushing. “We’d have been hopeless without you.” He turned tail and disappeared to dress h
imself in the guise Holmes had dictated. The detective vanished as well, to turn himself into whomever he planned to be for the day. I stole a look at my housekeeper, who was still standing motionless in the kitchen doorway with a slight smile on her face.
I waited on the sofa, amused that for once, I was free to remain in my own character while the two men changed theirs. I knew Holmes’s love of the drama of disguise, and I was glad that he had a reason to employ it. He would never have admitted it, but it seemed to provide an outlet for the part of him that might have enjoyed treading the boards of the London stage.
Dr Watson emerged quickly, looking more ordinary than I had ever seen him. Normally, there is a pervasive neatness about the doctor, an air that marks him out as a former military man, but Holmes had chosen his clothing well, and he looked like a farmer or one of the working men of the village.
Holmes took longer, but when he came into the sitting room, he looked as ordinary as his friend, an accomplishment that was far more difficult to achieve. I had seen his powers of transformation during the Florida case, but years had elapsed, and I saw with fresh eyes. He smiled at my obvious astonishment.
“I hadn’t expected to create such an impression in one accustomed to my methods,” he said, clearly pleased with himself.
“You both look your parts very well,” I said, not willing to allow him a victory. “I wish you the greatest of luck.”
“No need for luck,” said Holmes. “Watson and I are old hands at this sort of thing.”
“Though I am not usually in disguise,” said Watson, not sounding overly pleased at his lot.
“I would hardly call it a disguise, Watson,” said his flatmate. “It’s merely a way to gain you an entrance. You’ve no need to speak or act differently than you normally do.”
“Well, that’s merciful,” said the doctor, and I thought I detected a note of sarcasm in his voice.
“Your task, I fear, may be more difficult than ours,” said Holmes quietly, looking at me with a steady gaze.
