Sherlock Holmes and The Folk Tale Mysteries

by Gayle Lange Puhl

  “Mr. Fenris Grey was covered in his brother’s blood, but he had a bright idea. They were strangers in Lakeworth, merely tourists. He and his brother were practically identical. The only noticeable difference was that Fenris wore spectacles. He pulled off his pince-nez and dropped it by the body. He even had the presence of mind to switch his wallet with Lovatt’s. He grabbed the money and hastened back to the Dragon’s Flagon. He managed to sneak upstairs without being seen and changed into another suit of clothes. Fenris hid the money, the picklocks and his bloody clothes in the wardrobe. Now he could pose as Lovatt, left at the inn with a debilitating headache from the festivities of the night before. Plenty of witnesses had seen Lovatt Grey drinking heavily then. He was certain that no one had seen either of them leave the inn separately that morning. If he was wrong, well, bird-watching covered a multitude of sins.

  “The news of Peter Woodman’s arrest must have seemed like a gift from Heaven.

  “When we walked in here, I could see at once the tell-tale dints of a pair of pince-nez on either side of Fenris Gray’s nose. The corpse at the hospital had no such marks. In my files back in Baker Street I have several reports of two men who have made a career of petty burglary at summer tourist resorts. I have been on the lookout for them for several years. The rest you know.”

  Inspector Sarpent stood up and helped his whimpering prisoner to his feet. Two constables at the door took charge of the bound man. “I’ll be around in a bit to fill out the papers,” he told them. “Fenris Grey is to be charged with the murders of Mrs. Gradmutter and Mr. Lovatt Grey. Keep an eye on him. Don’t leave him alone. Oh, and release Peter Woodman. He really was just trying to help Rose Cowell out of her faint.”

  The inspector took out the room key the landlord had handed to him and turned to Holmes and me. “I think I’d better search his wardrobe before word gets out about that money.”

  “Our work is finished,” Holmes declared. “I will be glad to get back to London, gentlemen. Somehow, such an example of man’s evil nature as this appears more terrible and dark when surrounded by bright flowers and birdsong. The capability for murder may lurk deep in the heart of every man, but the grey stones and vile alleys of the city seem a fitter canvas for it than the green grass and leafy trees of the countryside. Dr. Watson and I will have a little lunch and then return to London by the afternoon train. If you want us for the inquest you need only to send another telegram.”

  The Case of the Vain Vixen

  It was in late October, only a couple of years after the beginning of my association with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. My friend had just solved the St. Ives Substitution Case and the newspapers were still hailing his handling of the case of Col. Pott and the Great Pease Scandal as a nine-day wonder.

  We returned from Cornwall on the same night a great storm broke over London. The forceful downpour slammed down Baker Street, great sheets of water crashing against the darkened storefronts and washing over the ruddy cobblestones. The feeble gaslights gleamed through the downpour to show gutters full of black rain overflowing into the streets. Over the city jagged knives of lightening ripped heavy black clouds apart and the strong, gusty winds knit them together again. No carriages or people were abroad, all having deserted the open spaces of the city for whatever shelter could be found from the chilly tempest.

  We were dull after our trip home and went to our rooms early in the evening as the storm raged.

  Light gleamed through the sitting-room windows the next morning as we finished breakfast. As frequently happens after such a violent storm, the city shone around us, its dirt and grime washed away by the great volume of water. Narrow mare’s tails drifted high in a soft blue sky and every bit of glass and metal below reflected the bright rays of the sun swimming overhead.

  Sherlock Holmes lay stretched out on the sofa with his eyes closed. His face was pale. His long, sensitive fingers merely plucked the strings of his beloved violin. The bow had fallen forgotten to the carpet.

  I watched him silently. We were both feeling the effects of the last case. Weeks of investigation, ending in a dangerous chase in the dark over high cliffs and crumbling rocks to prevent yet another murder had exhausted us both. The cunning villain had a boat waiting for him in a black cove. It was only a dangerous leap made by Holmes that prevented his escape. I hoped that there would be no cases for Holmes until he had a chance to rest and recover his strength. But I hoped in vain.

  After the last dishes were carried away there was a knock on the door. Mrs. Hudson ushered in a tall, well-dressed gentleman, as distinguished and handsome as a Roman Senator. As he entered the room he took off his silk hat to display a full head of wavy prematurely white hair. He smiled at Sherlock Holmes and extended a hand in greeting.

  “Welcome home, Mr. Holmes. I’m glad to see by the newspapers that your latest case was successfully completed.”

  Holmes rose from the sofa. “Thank you, Mr. Liddle. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. John H. Watson. Mr. Liddle is the senior partner of Liddle, Klein, Lowe, Winzig and Short, solicitors, Forestland Square, London, Watson. We are old acquaintances. He has brought me a number of cases over the years that needed extra attention before they could be handed over to Queen’s Council for trial.

  Mr. Liddle turned to me and bowed. “I am pleased to meet you, Doctor.

  I murmured my greeting and motioned him to a seat. He accepted a place on the sofa. Sherlock Holmes dropped into his armchair by the fire and gestured for him to speak.

  “Mr. Holmes, I am here on behalf of my firm to tell you of a most unusual situation in which we find ourselves.”

  “Please leave nothing out, Mr. Liddle. You know my methods.”

  “Our offices are in Forestland Square, near the Inns of Court. Our partnership is made up of old friends who have been together since we all studied law together many years ago. We have our offices in a large suite of rooms at 31 Forestland. Next door, at 29, is our boarding house, where we are taken care of by Mrs. Boddle. Her son Nip is our office boy and messenger. Our clerks, Simon Small and Bruce Weebairn, have been with us for years and also live at Mrs. Boddle’s.

  “At breakfast this morning we thought that last night’s storm might bring in an increase of cases of property damage. Accordingly, we decided to leave for our offices earlier than usual, to be ready when clients arrive. Imagine our surprise when Mrs. Boddle opened the front door for us to find a huddled figure on the steps, dripping wet and showing effects of the storm on her person.”

  “Her?” I asked.

  “Yes. The young woman was quite insensible and shivering with cold. Mr. Small and Nip carried her upstairs at once and Mrs. Boddle called a doctor. He arrived and saw her in Mrs. Boddle’s bedroom. She had come to herself by then. He said she was suffering from exposure. He prescribed a tonic, gave Mrs. Boddle instructions about her care and diet, and promised to look in again this evening.

  “Mrs. Boddle had put her to bed, warmly wrapped in flannel, but she insisted on seeing us as soon as the doctor left. We gathered around, the seven of us, along with Mrs. Boddle and Nip, as she poured out her amazing story. It was such an amazing story that we all agreed that I should fetch you at once to help us.”

  “You want me to establish her bona fides.”

  “Exactly so. We are seven middle-aged bachelors and quite unused to young ladies in non-professional situations. We cannot allow an appearance of over-familiarity to compromise either ourselves or the young woman. She says she is respectable, but is she? What if there is criminal intent in this encounter? We do have a fine collection of plate in the house. On the other hand, she says she is in danger. In that case, it is our duty to protect her and help her out of her difficulty. You understand why we have turned to you, Mr. Holmes.”

  “I do, Mr. Liddle. What did the young woman have to say?”

  “She introduced herself as the Lady Blanche Snodonia, dau
ghter of Alexander, the late Earl of Chillwater. You recall that he died six weeks ago, in London, after returning from three years on expedition in South America. The title and estate went to his younger brother Michael.”

  “Look them up in Debrett’s, Watson.”

  I paged through the worn volume. “Here is the entry. Ah, Alexander was the fifth Earl. In his forty-fifth year he married Lady Honouria Konig, second daughter of Wilhelm Konig, the Austrian ambassador to Brazil. After two years she died giving birth to Lady Blanche. That was twenty-two years ago. He remarried three years later to Angelique, only daughter of the late Dr. François Remouleur and his wife Marie, of Rouen.

  “Lord Chillwater was a noted explorer, as is his younger brother Michael.”

  Holmes shuffled through a pile of newspapers near his feet and drew out a Times. He searched through the pages until he found what he sought. He handed the paper, folded so the relevant article was uppermost, to me. I cleared my throat.

  “Lord Chillwater had been at home at his townhouse for two weeks. That evening the earl and countess dined alone. Later that night he complained to his valet of stomach pains. Remedies were applied to no avail. Early in the morning Lady Chillwater called for the family physician. Sir Harvey Albern brought along a colleague. Sir Harvey diagnosed gastritis. Treatment was prescribed and the doctors left. Half an hour later, the earl’s condition worsened and before Sir Harvey could return, he died. The doctors decided that under the strain of his stomach illness, his heart had given out. The certificate was signed by both men. Lord Chillwater was in his seventieth year.”

  “His brother Michael Snodonia, the new earl, was last seen in the mountains of northern India on expedition. A search is on to notify him of his brother’s death. Officials have no way to confirm his location. It is unknown when he will return to England.”

  Mr. Liddle looked at both of us. “Lady Blanche claimed that yesterday, before the storm, she was shopping on Oxford Street and her stepmother, Lady Chillwater, tried to kill her.”

  “Indeed!” said Holmes. “How very unexpected. Do you believe her?”

  “I’m not sure. She had obviously been through a physical ordeal. She asked for our help. Under the circumstances, can we turn her out? Is she whom she claims? Could her story be true? Right now she is at our boarding house, resting in Mrs. Boddle’s bed. Will you help us, Mr. Holmes? I have our carriage waiting.”

  “I will talk to her, Mr. Liddle. Get your hat and coat, Watson.”

  We set off at once in Mr. Liddle’s carriage and rattled through the fresh-washed street to Forestland Square. Numbers 29 and 31 stood next to each other, identical red-brick Georgian brick buildings trimmed with sandstone quoins around the windows and at the corners. Holmes seemed energized. He grinned at me.

  “Ah, here we are. Watson, pay attention. A mysterious, helpless woman, lost in a brutal storm, in danger from unknown evil forces. Just the sort of thing you live for. Take notes.”

  Sometimes Sherlock Holmes displayed the oddest sense of humour.

  A short, middle-aged woman with grey-streaked ginger hair and dressed in black bombazine ushered us into the front parlor. There we were greeted by six men. They rose from chairs arranged around the fireplace, each dressed in a similar professional fashion, and obviously waiting for us. Mr. Liddle introduced us to his partners and clerks and then turned a questioning eye to the nearest man, a stout gentleman in a dark brown suit and figured waistcoat.

  “We sent Nip over to handle the door. He will come back and tell us if any clients show up. We don’t want to miss any of this, Liddle. Call it… curiosity.”

  “I understand, Klein,” replied our client. “Now that Mr. Holmes is here, I yield the floor to him.”

  In his masterful fashion, Sherlock Holmes took control over his large audience. All traces of weariness were gone. It was a striking sight to see him standing in front of the fireplace, the blaze behind him, his feet apart and his hands thrust under his coattails as he surveyed the men seated in chairs in a circle before him. “I do have some questions, gentlemen. Then I will wish to interview the young lady herself. First, all of you have heard her story?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Have any of you seen her before?”

  There was a chorus of “no’s”.

  “Did anyone notice her in the vicinity of your home or offices yesterday?”

  He received another negative response.

  “Please try to remember. Have you seen anyone lurking about in this street during the past two weeks?”

  Again the collected answer was no.

  “Which of you believe her?”

  Six hands rose. After a pause, Mr. Liddle added his own to the tally.

  Holmes pulled out his pipe, remembered where he was and returned it to his pocket. “I may have more questions later. I think I am now ready to meet the young lady.”

  Mr. Lowe, a slight, sandy-haired man dressed in black broadcloth, went to consult with Mrs. Boddle. He soon returned. “Her clothes have been dried in the kitchen and she is dressing. She will come down to us.”

  The announcement caused a stir in the room. Chairs were rearranged and a sofa with rosewood carving along the top of its back was brought forward and placed to advantage before the mantelpiece. I noticed with some amusement that more than one middle-aged solicitor straightened his tie and smoothed his hair in preparation for the lady’s arrival.

  As soon as the door to the hallway opened and she entered, I understood their actions. The object of our investigation was a petite young woman, just under the average height, carrying herself like a thoroughbred. The dark blue walking dress she wore fit her slender form perfectly. A thick blond braid hung down her long, graceful neck, and her soft green eyes shone with intelligence as she looked at us gathered there. Her peaches and cream complexion glowed in the natural light that lit up the parlor from the tall draped windows. A shy smile showed white teeth through full lips as she sat down daintily on the sofa. Holmes took up his position again in front of the fire. I edged my chair closer so I could better observe.

  Mr. Liddle introduced Holmes. He bowed to her and ran a searching glance over her person. “I have been asked by Mr. Liddle and his partners to be of assistance to you. I understand you believe yourself in danger. Please tell me what happened, leaving out nothing. I know you have already told your story to these gentlemen, but it is important that I hear it from you. Every detail may be important.”

  Her voice was clear and musical. “I will do my best, Mr. Holmes. My name is Lady Blanche Snodonia. I am the daughter of the late Earl of Chillwater. He died a month ago. My uncle Michael inherited the title, but he’s in India and has yet to return home.”

  “My mother died when I was an infant and my father remarried. He had gone to Bad Plazen to take the cure and met my stepmother there. She was fifteen years younger than he and considered very beautiful. My father was an explorer for the Royal Geographic Society. He traveled to places in South America searching for exotic plants used by the natives for medical cures. At home he would write books about his experiences. He also ran experiments on some of the materials he had collected.

  “My stepmother and I spent parts of each year at the London townhouse in Castle Square, our places in Ireland and Italy and Eisig Hall, our country estate. When he was home he and my stepmother also took trips to France and Spain.

  “I believe my father loved me, but my stepmother’s attitude changed as I grew up. My father and I were very close, and when my stepmother convinced my father to send me to a faraway school at the age of twelve, my heart almost broke. But we wrote to each other frequently and spent time together on vacation, when my father was home. His last trip was deep into the interior of the Amazon and lasted over three years. He had only been back two weeks when he suddenly collapsed and died last month.”

  There
was a murmur of condolences from the group in the room. Holmes motioned for her to continue. Lady Blanche touched a lace-edged handkerchief to her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “My stepmother had always been cool toward me, but as I grew older she pulled away more and more. Sometimes I would find her staring at me as I sat quietly, drawing or reading a book. Then she would retreat to her bedroom. Once when I had just turned eleven years old, I followed her and found her seated before her mirror. She was touching her face and whispering to herself. She saw me and became very angry, ordering me away. She spent the next year convincing my father to send me away to boarding school. Before that I had a governess.

  “I have been living in Switzerland for the last three years, studying art at my father’s request. I really finished school years ago, but my father insisted I get lessons on embroidery, office skills and art at several different places while he was gone. I was taking classes in drawing and painting. I think the real purpose was to keep me away from home. I wanted to drop my lessons and come back at once when my father returned from South Africa six weeks ago, but he wrote that I should stay until he sent for me. I thought that he might be using the time with his wife to renew their marriage without distraction. After all, they had been separated for over three years. I expected a letter and ticket home every day. Instead, I got a telegram announcing his death.

  “After the funeral, I stayed at Castle Square. I was very upset and the familiar surroundings of my childhood home were a comfort to me. My stepmother encouraged me to go out, to shop or to lunch, but it wasn’t until yesterday that I felt up to leaving the house.

  “I wanted one of the maids to accompany me, but my stepmother insisted that all of them were needed at home. The household was in a state of disruption, since several servants had retired or quit after my father’s death. She told me she did not want to add more strain to the downstairs staff by seeming to favor one maid over another by giving one what appeared to be a half-day holiday trailing behind me while I shopped.