by Amy Thomas
“Simply play along and act as you normally would,” said Holmes.
“Very well,” she answered, as they approached the low brick building that housed the office of Charles Stevenson.
A ring of the bell produced a short young man who looked as if he was so clean he was likely to sweat soapsuds if warmed. “What is your business?” he asked curtly. “You have no appointment.”
Holmes cleared his throat. “Please inform Mr Stevenson that Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler wish to speak with him.”
The young man looked up at the detective, seeming to evaluate whether or not it was within his ability to get rid of the visitors himself. Holmes stared down at him sharply until he dropped his gaze and ushered the companions inside, disappearing behind a closed door.
The barrister’s vestibule was furnished simply, but the wood of the young clerk’s desk was of the highest quality, as was the bench on which Holmes and Irene took their seats without being asked. The companions waited five minutes and then ten. “Do you think he means to bore us into losing interest?” asked The Woman.
“No,” said the detective, “but he does mean to make us uncomfortable, something he does very well in the courtroom, I’d imagine.”
“Have you never seen him perform his role as legal advocate?” Irene enquired. “I understood him to be very active in London.”
“I have heard of him, but our paths have not crossed,” said Holmes. “I would expect him to have heard of me.”
The door opened again, and out stepped Charles Stevenson, barrister, wearing a suit that Holmes priced at roughly the yearly income of one of the men who worked on the Phillimore farm. “Please come in,” said his smooth voice, and the detective and his companion passed into a large, dark office. The clerk went back to his desk, giving Holmes a cold glance as he did so.
“You’ll have to forgive my young man,” said Stevenson, motioning to the two to sit down. “His father is a peer, and it seems to have affected his disposition.” He laughed drily. “A peer with no money to speak of, but still, a peer.” Holmes thought that it must have been one of the man’s great regrets that he himself had not been born to rank.
Stevenson sat down behind his desk and folded his long, pale fingers. “Well, Mr Holmes,” he said, “I can’t fathom that the great detective of Baker Street has come to me for legal advocacy.”
“I would like your help,” said Holmes deferentially. “I’ve been retained by Edith Phillimore to investigate the circumstances of her husband’s unfortunate death, but I find the details very difficult to unravel,” he lied smoothly. “If you have any information that might help, I’d be indebted to you. As you know, villages are very difficult places to glean anything of value. A great deal of talk goes on, without clarity or intelligence.”
The barrister smiled. “I hardly think that you, Mr Holmes, would be foiled by the unreliability of village gossip. I thank you for your flattery, but it is unnecessary. I will help you in any way I can.”
Holmes smiled. “Excellent. As you were on hand the day the body was discovered, I hoped you might shed a little light on the circumstances. I’ve spoken to Dr Clarke, but he was so focused on the corpse that I fear he may have missed some of the surrounding details that a man of your expertise would have noticed.”
Stevenson leaned forward, and his fine white hair fell over his forehead. The detective noted that he appeared to relish the opportunity to give his account. “I only learned of the unfortunate event because I was supping at the home of the good doctor that night. We went to the house together and found them laying out the poor man’s body. It was obvious he’d been killed long before, but still an arresting sight. The widow was distraught.”
“If you don’t mind a question, who fetched the doctor?”
“Mrs Merriwether, the cook at Oakhill Farm.”
“Were the police present when you arrived?”
“Only just. Graves has been resident in the village for the duration of the investigation of the disappearance, and he roused Chipping and those ridiculous boys. It’s a good thing they didn’t find any evidence. With their methods, I doubt it would hold up in court.”
“You favour the London police, then?” asked Holmes.
“On the contrary,” said Stevenson. “They’re equally inept, but with fancier pedigrees.” Holmes didn’t particularly like the man, but he had to agree. “I remained at the house until Dr Clarke left. Miss Adler saw me just prior to our departure.”
“True,” said Irene.
“Had you any theories about Phillimore’s disappearance before that time?” Holmes asked.
“None whatsoever,” said Stevenson.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, “you’ve been very helpful,” though he was thinking the opposite. “Miss Adler, I believe we may take our leave.”
“Won’t you stay for a cup of tea?” asked the barrister, looking as if he didn’t mean it.
“I think not,” said Holmes. “We have other pressing engagements.” The young man showed the detective and The Woman out in the manner of a housewife throwing rubbish into the dustbin.
Once outside, Irene looked up at Holmes in perplexity. “If you’ve managed to glean something important from that conversation, then you’ve outstripped me by miles.”
“Few miles,” Holmes answered. “The man is less susceptible to appeals to his vanity than I’d anticipated. We do know now that Mrs Merriwether sounded the initial alarm, though this was a frustratingly elaborate way to arrive at that detail.”
“I don’t believe my ignorance was of much assistance after all,” said Irene, “though I did appreciate your subservient act.”
“I confess,” said Holmes, “that I hoped the man would betray that he knew something of his daughter’s predicament.”
“An excellent motive,” The Woman murmured.
“Still a possible one,” said Holmes, “but if it is true, we will have to discover it by different means.”
“I almost think I prefer cases in which my own life is in danger,” said Irene. “The excitement is much enhanced.”
“Stay the course,” said Holmes. “We will find the murderer.”
“Do you not worry that he or she will have fled?”
“No,” said Holmes. “A person who places a corpse or arranges for a corpse to be placed in as prominent a location as Phillimore’s murderer did is almost certain to remain and survey the effects of his handiwork.”
“Insanity?”
“Not necessarily, but a desire for recognition, certainly.”
“Then why not confess, as some do, and receive all the credit?”
“I believe our murderer feels stronger than that, invincible and not susceptible to detection. Of course, in truth, all murderers are susceptible to detection because they invariably make mistakes.”
Holmes would have continued to speak, but as he and Irene turned to start up the hill to the cottage, a yell behind them stopped them in their tracks. The detective turned to see the frantic form of Edith Phillimore, flushed and wild-eyed as she approached.
“Whatever is the matter?” asked Irene.
“It’s Eliza,” panted the breathless woman. “I can’t find her anywhere.”
I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.
- The Man with the Twisted Lip
Chapter 15: Irene
“What happened?” I asked, putting out a hand and lightly touching Edith’s shoulder. “She was at home earlier. I saw her in the carriage house, and then Lewis put her to bed.”
“I know,” she answered. “She got up and went to the chicken house, and she never came back. I sent the men scouring all over the property for her, but she was gone. There’s no chance she had enough time to get away under her o
wn power.”
“Have you told the police?” Holmes asked.
She nodded. “They’re forming a search party, but I came straight to you from them.” I had observed that while Holmes did not admire the police’s methods when it came to more refined tasks, he had the sense to see when they were needed.
“Of course, we will do all we can,” said Holmes.
I could see that Edith was near tears, but she used powerful self-control to hold herself together for the moment. “Inspector Graves told me to go home and wait for developments,” she said. “I’m going to ask Julia to come with me.”
“Very wise,” said Holmes, and she walked away toward the Stevenson house, her shoulders bowed with dejection and fear.
“What do we do?” I asked my friend.
“We go home,” said Holmes.
“Whatever for?”
“To figure out what I’ve missed.”
***
The inside of the cottage was empty, and it didn’t take Holmes to deduce for me that Dr Watson and Mrs Turner had gone out together. My friend immediately made for the wing chair, and I sat opposite him so that he could talk through the details in his mind if he wished. He was beyond me then. I saw facts, and my brain refused to stop making surmises, but I had no idea which direction to proceed or what might be in my companion’s mind. After a long silence, I got up to make tea, but when I came back and pushed a cup into Holmes’s hand, he did not acknowledge my presence.
“Tobacco,” he said after what seemed like an age. I was almost asleep by this point, drowsy amidst the quiet of his thoughts, but the insistent tone of his voice woke me, even though he spoke quietly.
“What?” I asked.
Holmes leapt to his feet, colour rising in his cheeks. “We must leave at once. There is no time to lose.” I knew better than to argue, following him outside as quickly as I could.
“The tobacco, Irene. He tried to fool me, but the tobacco gave him away.”
“Who, Phillimore? Stevenson?” I breathed hard, trying to keep pace with Holmes’s long, quick strides.
“No,” he said, “Dr Clarke.”
“What?” I said again, walking along and staring at my friend with disbelief. “I thought we ruled out the possibility of Edith’s story.”
“We did,” said Holmes, “but nevertheless, it’s him. I saw traces of Phillimore’s tobacco in his study.”
“How do you know it was Phillimore’s and not someone else’s who uses the same sort?”
“Clarke doesn’t smoke, and he never allowed tobacco anywhere near him from notions of it being harmful to the health. The traces I saw were ground into the floor of his study, as if dropped by accident and not heeded. He would never have allowed the stuff if he could have helped it. The pattern of droppings suggests that the tobacco fell out of Phillimore’s pocket, perhaps during an altercation.” Holmes related these facts in a monotone that suggested he was agitated on the inside. I wondered why these signs had not been evident to him before, but I didn’t comment. There would be plenty of time for that.
I quickly ascertained that Holmes was leading me to Dr Clarke’s house at the edge of the village. A shouted greeting by Miss Rose as we passed the butcher’s shop was not returned, and I hoped in passing that I had not mortally offended her.
“We won’t find Clarke here,” said Holmes. “I only hope to find clues to where he might have taken the child.”
“Should I find the police?”
“No,” said Holmes. “They will be half way to the farm by now. There isn’t time.”
Clarke’s house was dark and quiet, with no sign of anyone to let us in. Holmes dexterously picked the lock on the front door and led me through the suite of rooms that the doctor used as a surgery. The light from the afternoon sun cast strange shadows, and I felt a strong sense of foreboding as I looked around at the coldly formal arrangements. Holmes quickly passed through, entering an unusually broad hallway.
“What are we seeking?” I asked.
“Any sign of the child and where he might have taken her,” said Holmes briefly. “Barring that, any sort of disturbance.”
My friend undoubtedly knew what he meant by this, but I was less sure. I found myself peeking into obviously-unused rooms and then coming out again into the passage, feeling as if I were Alice in Wonderland trying to make sense of a strange world. Holmes, meanwhile, went straight for a large room at the end. After a few minutes, I joined him, less than satisfied with my own efforts. He was searching Clarke’s dustbin.
I knew better than to say anything and proceeded to walk around the perimeter of the room with as little luck as I’d had previously. I was about to give up and search through the jumbled papers on Clarke’s vast desk, a task Holmes had already performed, when something caught my eye. There was a flash of white tucked between the cushion and the back of Clarke’s chair. It was the smallest of fibres, but it looked out of place.
“Holmes,” I said, “look.”
To his credit, the detective trusted me enough to stand to his feet and look at the wisps in my hand. “Charles the rabbit,” he said shortly. “Eliza was here.” As gratifying as the realisation was, it also chilled my blood. Until we had found evidence, the reality of Eliza’s kidnapping had seemed further off, almost as if it might not really be happening. Now, there was no mistaking the truth.
I stood back as Holmes made his way around the room again, looking at each surface. Finally, he glanced over to where I was, standing next to a small table on which the doctor had placed a decanter and a glass. The detective ran toward me and grabbed the glass, putting it to his lips and turning it slowly. His eyes grew alarmingly bright.
“They’re here!” he said
“What?” I asked dumbly, unable to process what he was saying.
“The lip of the glass is warmer than it should be,” he whispered. “Speak softly.”
“There’s no need for that,” said a voice in the doorway, and a woman with a ramrod-straight spine, a black dress, and a large gun met my gaze.
“Mrs Parkfield,” I said pointlessly.
“I’ve no idea what you hope to accomplish,” Holmes said coolly. “You can’t possibly keep us here.”
“I have no intention of keeping you after Dr Clarke gets what he wants.” She trained her gun on me. “This is quite simple, Mr Holmes,” she said, and the detective and I sat down in the chairs that stood before Clarke’s desk. I looked over at Holmes, trying to ascertain what work his brain might be doing, but his face was totally impassive. Mrs Parkfield sat in Clarke’s chair, not taking her eyes off either of us. I had never liked her when I’d met her in the village, and my ill feeling was finally justified.
My mind went back to the day I had been held prisoner in a tiny field office in south Florida. I had felt hopeless then, but the circumstances were hardly the same. Holmes had been with me then as well, but I had been unaware of his presence, ignorant of the fact that he was about to rescue me. Now, he was seated next to me, and his presence was comforting, though the irony was that he, too, was a prisoner.
After a few short moments that seemed much longer than they really were, I heard a noise in the hallway, and Clarke passed the doorway with the sleeping Eliza Phillimore in his arms. He stepped into his study, and I saw that the child was more than asleep; she had obviously been drugged.
“What is the meaning of this, Clarke?” asked Holmes, not as if he was addressing a criminal as much as an old and disappointing friend.
“It’s your fault, you know,” said Clarke. “I was getting away with it before you came. When you arrived and started nosing your way around the village, I knew it was only a matter of time before you figured out the truth one way or the other. After all, you learned some of your methods from me, though you’ve far eclipsed my modest achievements.”
&nbs
p; “What do you want from me?” asked Holmes.
“You’re going to write to the police, assuring them of the guilt of Charles Stevenson for the death of James Phillimore, a murder motivated by the fact that the man had meddled with Stevenson’s daughter Julia. Miss Adler will deliver this letter, along with proof in the form of letters in the man’s own hand - or the hand of someone near enough for the ineptitude of Inspector Graves. Mrs Parkfield, my trusted assistant, will make sure this occurs. After that, I will personally escort both of you to the train station. You will leave Fulworth, never to return. After that, and only after that, I will return Eliza to her unfortunate mother. You must see, Holmes, that for all your cleverness, you have no option. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Very well,” said Holmes, sounding defeated. Mrs Parkfield smiled unpleasantly and handed him a piece of stationery and a pen, her gun still pointed firmly in my direction. The detective went to the side table and placed the paper upon it, beginning to write, his non-dominant hand fidgeting nervously in his pocket. Clarke watched him carefully. “It’s dull,” he said after a moment of wrestling with the pen.
“Mrs Parkfield, get him another,” said Clarke, his old shoulders slumping from the little girl’s weight.
At that moment, Holmes’s lazily fidgeting hand sprang to life, and I saw a blur of light that suddenly blazed up with heat and shooting sparks. At the same time, the decanter rolled toward me across the floor, and in a split second, Holmes had snatched Eliza from the dazed Clarke, and we ran for the door.
“Fire! Fire!” screamed my companion as we hurled ourselves outside, and one of the inevitabilities of village life began to work immediately in our favour. People came running from everywhere. Mothers streamed out of Cottonwood’s with babies in their arms. The butcher came running out of his shop with a leg of mutton in his hand, and Miss Rose, who didn’t appear offended after all, gamely took Eliza in her arms. The news spread from around us and seemed to bring out every able-bodied person in the village. Meanwhile, I was relieved to find that Holmes was now the one with the gun, and as my eyes scanned the mayhem, I saw the hapless Clarke and his assistant skulking away at the back of the crowd.
