The Detective, The Woman and the Winking Tree

by Amy Thomas

  “Stop the doctor and Mrs Parkfield!” I screamed as loudly as I could, no longer caring how insane I might or might not seem. “They killed Phillimore!” As could be expected, this assertion produced a flurry of aimless noise and activity, but thankfully, a young man with strong arms and an equally strong mind laid hold of the man, and his action prompted the vicar, who was next to him, to take hold of Mrs Parkfield’s wrists. Edward Rayburn looked nothing like a knight in shining armor, but as he paraded Dr Clarke over to Holmes, he looked as heroic as any subject of a romantic painting that I had ever seen. Father Murphy seemed less comfortable with the task of dragging a substantial, angry woman in our direction, but he did so. At that moment, someone in the crowd screamed, “There’s a real fire!” and I realised that I had actually managed to forget the flames that Holmes had set on their merry way.

  “The fire brigade must form immediately,” said Holmes, “and Miss Adler, Edward Rayburn, and the vicar will help me restrain these two until the police arrive.” The sound of my friend’s commanding voice worked wonders among the crowd, who almost magically broke apart to follow his instructions.

  The detective led the group of captives and captors to the village green, where the Winking Tree greeted us with its usual green solemnity. “This will be best,” said Holmes. “Impossible to escape in plain sight with the whole village outside.” He sounded, I thought, quite pleased. “Now, we will send to the farm for the inspector and sergeant,” he continued.

  “I could drive Miss Adler,” said an eager voice, and I looked behind me to find that Jimmy Simms, a young man possessed of dimples and oversized hands, had run over and was eagerly awaiting instructions like an energetic puppy.

  “Very well,” said Holmes, “but first, fetch us some rope.” The boy was quick, and in a few minutes, the resolute Edward and tired vicar were relieved of the task of subduing Clarke and Mrs Parkfield.

  ***

  “How did Mr Holmes get them?” asked Simms eagerly once we were on our way.

  “He surprised them,” I answered, “by starting the fire.”

  The boy’s eyes grew large with amazement. “He might have gotten burned himself.”

  “That’s true,” I answered. I hadn’t thought of it until then.

  Chance has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward.

  - The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle

  Chapter 16: Holmes

  Inspector Graves and Sergeant Chipping arrived as quickly as Holmes had expected. Behind them, Simms drove Irene’s wagon, but crowded in with The Woman were Edith Phillimore, Julia Rayburn, and an unhappy Mrs. Merriwether.

  The first thing out of anyone’s mouth was Edith Phillimore’s hasty cry of “Where’s Eliza?”

  “Right here, Love,” said Miss Rose, who’d stepped into the open door of the butcher shop with her precious bundle once the fire was out and the crowd dispersed. The child was still drowsy, but she was awake enough to smile at her mother and cling to her neck.

  Meanwhile, Inspector Graves and Sergeant Chipping came over to the Winking Tree, where Holmes was still holding Clarke’s handgun on the woman and the doctor. “You’re sure, are you?” Graves asked, as if he half hoped Holmes might not be.

  “The man confessed as much,” said The Woman, coming up behind him, short and determined. “He tried to force Holmes to implicate Charles Stevenson.”

  Holmes’s eyes scanned the group that had gathered around and noticed that Julia Rayburn was extremely pale. “Perhaps,” he said, “we might discuss this further inside.”

  “My parents’ home will suffice, I think,” said Julia.

  “Clarke’s no longer will, I fear,” said Holmes. “The damage was extensive.” Irene, who was at his elbow, looked vastly pleased.

  The group made its way into the Stevenson home and were set up in the drawing room.

  In his pompous way, Inspector Graves began to question the suspects one by one - first Mrs Parkfield, then Clarke - taking them from the room almost ceremoniously. Meanwhile, the Stevensons’ cook managed to produce enough tea for the impromptu guests, though the footmen looked as if they thought those they served were beneath them.

  Within a short time, a tall, elegant figure appeared. Charles Stevenson, barrister, arrived home to find his house overrun with all manner of people and glowered at them all.

  He came toward the detective, who was seated on a sofa with The Woman and Edith Phillimore, who held her sleepy daughter in her arms. “You’ll never convict my friend,” he said sharply. “The case will be fought at every turn.”

  “I highly doubt it will be so difficult,” said Holmes mildly. The barrister’s rancor, he thought, stemmed from his realisation that he had been a strong suspect. The detective wondered what he knew of his daughter’s situation and concluded that he seemed to know nothing at all.

  After a long time, Sergeant Chipping emerged with Clarke; behind them was Inspector Graves, whose eyes blazed. He pointed a long finger at the cowering Mrs Merriwether who, during the proceedings, had tried to seem as if she was invisible. “You,” he said, “come with us.” Mrs Parkfield, restrained under many watchful eyes, looked slightly triumphant as the corpulent woman was led away to be questioned.

  Under cover of the excited and speculative conversation that followed, Irene turned to Holmes and spoke softly. “What has she to do with it? She helped the Phillimores with their plan, but Clarke would have no knowledge of that. I thought you took her admission of Phillimore’s unfaithfulness as proof of her innocence.”

  “I suspect,” the detective answered, “that she had nothing to do with the murder itself, but anything else would not surprise me. Phillimore was a small man.”

  The Woman looked irritated at the incompleteness of this speech, but Holmes turned to Edith and reassured her that if the cook was innocent, he would see to it that she was found so. The fact that he thought her far from innocent did not change the truth of the statement.

  The final person Sergeant Chipping fetched was the white-faced and shaky-handed Julia Rayburn, though he did not return Mrs Merriwether to the gathering. As the girl walked across the plush carpet, all eyes in the room followed her, most with surprise, but a few with understanding. Holmes had noticed that she had neither spoken to her husband nor taken her seat with him.

  Predictably, the barrister exploded at the perceived injustice. “What do they mean taking my Julia? What could she possibly have to do with it?”

  “She’s the reason for the whole thing,” said Mrs. Parkfield, insinuating nastily.

  Suddenly, Edward Rayburn rose to his full height and looked her in the eyes. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.”

  “Wife,” she replied with an ugly laugh, but at the same time, she retreated into herself and held her tongue as if his vehemence frightened her. Characteristic, Holmes thought, of the sort of person so under another’s spell that she would do what Mrs. Parkfield had done that day, the kind of person who only felt strong with gun in hand. Clarke sat silent, as he had the entire time he was not being questioned.

  After a very long time, Julia finally emerged, and it was obvious she had been weeping. Edward went to her and took her hand. She did not pull away, and she did not speak.

  The Inspector, the Sergeant, and Mrs Merriwether came out at last, and Graves went over to Holmes and held out his hand. “I’ll shake your hand, Sir,” he said. “You know I’m not fond of you from way back, but I acknowledge our indebtedness.”

  Recognising the immense effort it took for the man to swallow his pride, Holmes stood and took the hand that was proffered, shaking it firmly. Sergeant Chipping beamed like a large, slow sun, and as Holmes sat down, Irene gave him an ungenteel look that he could only interpret as a wink.

  ***

  If the proceedings had begun dramatic
ally, they ended without much fanfare at all. The policemen took Mrs Merriwether, Mrs Parkfield, and Dr Clarke with them, and the rest dispersed slowly, leaving the barrister’s house as if bidding goodbye to a ceremony. Irene, Holmes saw, spoke quietly to a few people, though he did not know her purpose. Once outside, she slipped her hand in his arm.

  “Holmes,” she said, as they made their way back to the cottage, “you are a braver man than even I realised.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked. “You were calm enough in peril. Never lost your nerve.”

  “I mean - I mean the fire. You could have been injured or killed very easily.”

  “That was no matter,” said the detective. “I was thinking of the child.”

  “But how did you do it? I confess my observational skills were eclipsed by my shock and panic.”

  “A white phosphorous match and alcohol are not the best of combinations at any time,” said Holmes. “With a bit of a nudge, they are lethal. Nevertheless, I don’t think Clarke was terribly sorry to be found out. For all his posturing, I think he’s proud of his work.”

  “But why do it?” asked The Woman. “What did he have against Phillimore? Stevenson’s potential motive was far more penetrable.”

  “Indeed,” said Holmes. “My observation tells me that his decision had to do with Julia Rayburn.”

  “Does the whole world revolve around Julia Rayburn?” Irene exploded. “The poor girl seems to be at the centre of everything.”

  “Not, perhaps,” said Holmes, “the actions of Mrs Merriwether.”

  “No?” Irene enquired, “after the past few days, I would believe any connection.”

  “I believe we will find,” said Holmes, “that her complicity sprang from an unhealthy devotion to Edith Phillimore.”

  “Not unlike Mrs Parkfield’s to the doctor, then.”

  “No, I believe Mrs Parkfield is in love with her employer, while at the same time deploring his hold over her. She’s an interesting specimen. The psychologists of London would find her an engaging study.”

  “I am sorry,” said Irene, “that your old friend is the guilty party.”

  “One can hardly call a man one only knew before the age of twelve to be an old friend, however much he wishes it. I see now that his kindness was meant to forestall discovery.”

  “Abominable,” said The Woman, and her tone of voice made Holmes afraid that she might wrap her arms around him as she had done once during the Florida case. Fortunately, propriety reigned, and she simply gave him her most brilliant smile, a gift, he knew, that most men found priceless.

  “The truly abominable thing,” said Holmes, “is that I trusted him. It was unforgivable.”

  “You didn’t ultimately trust him,” said Irene. “Your instincts led you to the answer.” But Holmes was unable to take such a sanguine view of his own behaviour.

  “His assessment of the body gave no reason to doubt him,” said the detective with irritation. “The preposterous nature of Edith Phillimore’s tale prejudiced me against the man as a suspect, and my association with him finished the job.”

  “I don’t suppose it helps any,” said The Woman, “but Julia’s part in the tale had me looking in other quarters. At one time, the thought even crossed my mind that Edward Rayburn might have done it to avenge Julia’s honour.”

  “It was to your credit,” said Holmes, “that you did not disqualify a man you obviously admire.”

  “Nevertheless,” she rejoined, “I cannot think ill of you for taking longer to impute the guilt of a heinous crime onto someone whose methods and kindness were significant to your boyhood.” Holmes didn’t answer because they were at the cottage, and music was issuing forth from it.

  The detective and The Woman found Watson sitting in a chair by the piano, clapping enthusiastically to the merry tune Mrs Turner played. She had on a long, violet dress, the likes of which Holmes had never seen her wear in his long years of association with her, and her hair, which was usually pulled back tightly, was softer this evening and framed her face like a halo. Her fingers ceased moving across the piano keys as they entered.

  “Good evening,” said Watson, smiling with colour in his cheeks. “Have you been able to advance the case?”

  “Upon my word,” said Holmes, “where have the two of you been?” He looked over at the housekeeper and saw her simultaneously blush and smile.

  “We took a long walk on the Downs,” said Watson. “The weather was nice, and we lost track of time. We’ve only been back a half hour.”

  “Obviously,” Irene interjected. “I’m afraid, Mrs Turner, that I shall have to ask for your assistance. I’ve done something a bit impulsive and invited guests for an evening meal.”

  Mrs Turner looked surprised for a moment, and then she stood up with resolve. “As you know,” she said, “I am more than equal to the task.”

  “I believe you,” said Irene, “but I insist on helping, just this once. I was in peril for my life a short time ago. You might take pity on me.” She grinned saucily at the older woman.

  “As you wish, Miss Adler,” the cook and housekeeper answered as her mouth tried to curve into a smile. Holmes realised then what Irene’s whispers to various and sundry had been about.

  The two women disappeared into the kitchen, and Holmes took his place in the wing chair opposite his flatmate, who had moved to the sofa. “Well, Holmes,” said Watson, “I had no idea things would erupt in this manner. I apologise for my absence.”

  “No need,” said the detective. “Miss Adler was adequate, though she lacks your physical instincts.”

  “A woman of her appearance needs no physical instincts,” Watson answered, “so capable is she of engendering them in others on her behalf.”

  “Perhaps,” said Holmes, “though I deduce that you are unaffected by her.”

  “My attentions go another way,” said the doctor placidly, “but that is hardly important at the moment. My own limping effort at deduction finds from your manner and Miss Adler’s that the case is solved.”

  “It is,” said Holmes, “though it reflects little credit on my career.”

  “I doubt that,” said Watson.

  “Well,” said the detective, “dinner will assuage your curiosity.”

  “That process,” said I, “starts upon the supposition that when you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

  - The Blanched Soldier

  Chapter 17: Irene

  The surpassing simplicity of the instructions Mrs Turner gave me as we cooked and set the table had the effect of making me feel like a slow-witted child. “I’m not a fine lady,” I finally said to her. “I’ve done these things for myself before.”

  “You’ve never been in service,” she retorted.

  “Very well,” I acquiesced. I might be able to keep my wits about me when a gun was pointed in my direction, but I was hopeless in the face of my housekeeper’s endless determination. I couldn’t blame her when I saw the spread that she somehow managed to produce, consisting of sausage pies, potatoes, cabbage, and several other bits and bobs that made my mouth water. Sometimes, I was very glad I’d left the life of a professional touring singer behind.

  My small party of guests arrived on time for our late meal. Edward Rayburn and the vicar came in together, followed by Simms, and finally Edith, Eliza and Julia. Edith and I quickly took Eliza and put her to bed in the housekeeper’s room, where she had previously spent the night. Her ordeal and drugging, which turned out to be via a non-harmful sedative, had made her extremely tired, and she was delighted to fall asleep with Charles the rabbit in her arms.

  When Julia saw her husband already present, I thought she might refuse to stay, but as I had hoped, she dreaded a scandal too much to run away. Perhaps it was unforgivably high-h
anded of me, but I could not resist a last effort to unite the couple. I knew that Julia intended to leave the village as soon as the police told her she might, and I couldn’t stand the idea. Edward, I thought, had come to town expressly to plead with her; he’d have had no other reason to leave his farm. Judging by their looks at one another, it seemed that he had not succeeded in seeing her.

  So far, I thought, Julia’s predicament was known to only a few. How it could continue to be concealed, I couldn’t fathom, but I trusted that Holmes would do his best to see that it was. My friend had no aversion to seeing the guilty punished to the full extent of the law, but he was always careful to protect those who had been brought into cases through the crimes of others.

  My small table was hardly big enough for the eight of us to sit around while Mrs Turner served us, but we managed it, and the close quarters seemed to contribute to a more convivial atmosphere. There was a certain air of relief that pervaded the company at knowing, come what may, that the man responsible for the death of James Phillimore was in the hands of the police. The man’s disappearance had hung like a spectre over the village, and it was as if Holmes’s fire had been a cleansing one, ridding Fulworth of its confusion and fear.

  I wasn’t consciously thinking these things, though, as we sat down to Mrs Turner’s sumptuous meal. I was merely thinking of how famished I was, and I didn’t seem to be the only one. For the first time in days, Holmes really ate, and I relished the sight. Watson, too, showed his appreciation of Mrs Turner’s cooking by partaking of a great deal of it. Simms was the most openly appreciative, remarking constantly about how wonderful everything was. I doubted that, as a shop boy, he was used to being invited out very often, and he seemed determined to savour the occasion as thoroughly as possible. I knew that he enjoyed my company and, perhaps, fancied me a bit, but I didn’t mind.