Sherlock Holmes and The Folk Tale Mysteries

by Gayle Lange Puhl

  “I took a cab from Castle Square to Oxford Street and strolled along the pavement, window-shopping and watching the crowds. At one point, I decided to cross the street to a teashop on the other side. I was waiting for a break in the vehicular traffic when I felt a strong push on my back. I was propelled into the street. A heavy wagon pulled by four dray horses loomed up before me and I nearly fell before their hooves. I was terrified! It was only by the grace of God, gentlemen, that I wasn’t trampled to a pulp in the street. Somehow I found myself huddled against a storefront on the other side, with an indifferent throng walking past me.

  “I looked across the street to where I had been and fancied that I saw a familiar hooded figure turning away and blending into the crowds.”

  “Whom do you think that figure to be, Lady Blanche?”

  “I believe it was my stepmother, Lady Chillwater, Mr. Holmes. I think she followed me and pushed me.”

  That was a serious charge, I thought. Lady Blanche was accusing her stepmother of trying to kill her. Why would she even think such a thing? I edged a little closer.

  “What happened next?”

  “I was in shock, I think, and could only think of getting away from that place. I began to walk away, then to run, and by the time the storm broke overhead I was lost in unfamiliar streets, far from where I began. I had lost my purse and my hat in the accident and could do nothing but walk on, afraid to ask for help because I feared she might have her agents around me.

  “I turned this way and that, shuffling through the darkness, terrified by the lightening and thunder, getting more exhausted and colder and more drenched by the rain as the night wore on. Finally I could go no farther and collapsed on some steps. I remember nothing more until I woke up in Mrs. Boddle’s bed.”

  Sherlock Holmes paced up and down in front of the splendid old Adams fireplace a few times, and then turned to the girl. “Show me your hands,” he demanded.

  Surprised, she lifted up her palms. Holmes took them and examined both with a practiced eye. Then he gently folded them together and released them back to her. “I will help you, Lady Blanche,” he said. “I have just a few more questions. Do you feel up to answering them now?”

  At that point Mrs. Boddle entered the room, carrying a hot drink on a silver tray. She placed it on a small table one of the solicitors hastily brought forward to put by Lady Blanche’s side. “It’s beef broth, at Doctor Bavard’s orders.”

  “An excellent prescription,” I remarked. Quietly we waited until the cup had been drained. Mrs. Boddle carried it away and Lady Blanche looked up at Sherlock Holmes. “I am ready, Mr. Holmes.”

  “I have read the newspaper accounts of your father’s death. Did your father show any sign of heart disease?”

  “You must remember that no one in the family had seen him in three years. His letters made no mention of any illness. He wrote mostly of trips into the interior and his scientific studies. He had an amateur’s interest in modern cures made from the exotic plants and creatures of primitive lands. Such work, however, was very hard. He would frequently be stranded in the jungle for months, or even years, far from civilization. If he grew ill, he would be dependent only on what was in his medical kit, plus whatever cures were offered by the native people. He was a fine-looking man, but he was just a few months shy of his seventieth birthday. South America was his last trip. He had decided to come home for good.”

  “Indeed. Did anyone else become ill after that last dinner?”

  “No. My father and my stepmother dined alone that night. The leftover dishes were consumed by the staff.”

  “Please tell me about your stepmother.”

  “Her name is Angelique Remouleur. My father was very proud of her beauty. She was nearly fifteen years younger than he. She was the daughter of a successful doctor. He died after a lingering illness and she traveled with her mother from one fashionable spa to another, following the sun. Supposedly it was for the sake of her mother’s health. It was during those wanderings that she met my father at Bad Plazen. They were married within a few months. Her mother lived with us. Grand’Mere Remouleur passed away when I was five.

  “Lady Chillwater takes great care of her appearance. She has a large wardrobe and thousands of pounds worth of jewelry. I think she never felt secure in the family because she failed to give my father an heir. She lavished all her affection on a series of lap dogs, every one of which was named Chin-Chin.”

  “Are you familiar with the terms of your father’s will?”

  “We heard it read after the funeral. The lawyers were very careful to explain it to me. There were gifts made to several friends, provisions for some valued servants, and directions that his just debts should be paid. As for his family, in broad terms, my stepmother was left a life interest in the Dower House at Eisig Hall plus a generous allowance. The estate is entailed, so Uncle Michael inherited Eisig Hall, the Irish property, our summer home in Italy, the Castle Square house and most of my father’s financial assets.”

  “What about you?”

  “Father never could imagine a future in which I was not married. I was left a large sum of money. I cannot touch the principle, but a percentage of the interest will be paid to me each year. The rest will be reinvested until I marry, at which time I will receive the full amount of interest. Until I marry, that sum of money is to be managed by a board of trustees named in the will. Afterward I will gain control of it all, including the principle, which I can dispose to my heirs.”

  “Is Lady Chillwater on the board?”

  “Yes, my father trusted her explicitly. She has an excellent record of managing his estates every time he left to explore. The others are Uncle Michael and two old friends of my father’s.”

  “What is your uncle like?”

  Lady Blanche frowned. “Uncle Michael was restless, like my father. He did work for the Royal Geographic Society, like my father did. When I was younger he lived in London and visited us frequently. He was always kind to me and brought me presents. After I was sent off to school, I only saw him on holidays and then only when he was in England. His job had him moving around a lot. He went to India when I was seventeen. I haven’t seen him since.

  “He married young, but his wife developed consumption and died. He had no children.”

  “Did he get along with your stepmother?”

  “I think she found him a bit forbidding. He looked like his brother, very handsome with the Chillwater strong chin and green eyes, but he had more of an autocratic manner than my father. No one, except my father, ever questioned Uncle Michael’s actions or motives. At times, when I was a child, he protected me from my stepmother’s displeasure.”

  “Could you depend upon him for help now?”

  She looked troubled. “I… I am not sure. Of course, he is now the earl. He has control over the investments that will bring us our allowances. But I haven’t seen him in five years. The last time he saw me I think he still considered me a child. I am afraid that he might not believe me about this attack. I don’t know if he would take my word over that of Lady Chillwater. He would have to be convinced with hard proofs. She can be very plausible. She has a winning way about her.”

  Lady Blanche raised her handkerchief to her eyes again and drooped a bit against the sofa cushions. I stood. “Have you finished, Holmes? Lady Blanche is weary.”

  “You are quite right, Watson. I think it is time we returned to Baker Street. Lady Blanche, thank you for your cooperation. Gentlemen, I will be in touch as soon as I have more information. Mr. Liddle, would you kindly see us out?”

  In the hallway Holmes turned to the solicitor. “She is the Lady Blanche Snodonia, Mr. Liddle. I can confirm that. Have you thought about what she will do now?”

  “My partners and I discussed that, Mr. Holmes. We cannot turn her away, if her life is in danger. She offered to work for us
in whatever position we could offer her, even in the kitchen.”

  “I do not think that is necessary. She said she has taken a secretarial course, due to her stepmother’s prolonged campaign to keep her away from home. She can use a typewriter.”

  “Then we shall find her something to do in the office. It will occupy her mind and she can feel that she is earning her keep. The room next to Mrs. Boddle’s is vacant. She will fix it up for Lady Blanche.”

  “One more warning, sir. Guard her carefully. Her life is indeed in danger. Allow her to eat and drink nothing that Mrs. Boddle has not prepared with her own hands. If possible, have someone with her at all times. Perhaps the work you have for her to do could be done here away from the office and the public. Keep her away from windows.”

  Mr. Liddle nodded grimly. Holmes and I reentered the carriage and started back. I had been thinking hard about the case and had several questions. “Holmes, do you believe her story?”

  “She has obviously been through a physical ordeal. That is confirmed by the condition of her shoes. Whatever else happened, she did wander the streets for hours last night, in the middle of that storm.”

  “Her shoes?”

  “Didn’t you notice their deplorable state? Even though they had been dried and cleaned, the signs were unmistakable. Always look first at the shoes, Watson. Her dress had been brushed and dried, but it was obvious the dress had been protected by an ulster or a cloak. The shoes told the tale.”

  “Why did you want to see her hands?”

  “I needed to see their condition. She showed no calluses that would have come by heavy work. The nails were carefully manicured, as a lady would have them. The skin was smooth and pink. That ruled out her being a maid or washerwoman, masquerading in the role of a lady. The fingertips were those of a typist or a musician, but she never mentioned music. The fingers and palms were scratched and scraped, from falling on rough hard surfaces. That would confirm her story.

  “She has made a serious charge against Lady Chillwater, Watson. All possibilities must be examined.”

  “What other possibilities could there be?” I was surprised at Holmes’ hesitation to believe her. To my mind, her every word and gesture spoke of sincerity and truth.

  “Doctor, try to see past her outer appearance to the inner woman. Have you considered that she may be delusional? By her own account, she has been buffeted badly by adversity during the last few weeks. She has been sheltered all her life. Such a series of shocks might unbalance anyone. She thinks that her stepmother has some sort of grudge against her and has had it for years. She mentioned at least three times that she was sent away from home by the countess’s machinations. If she accidentally stumbled into traffic yesterday, what would be more natural for a delusional woman but to imagine her enemy responsible?

  “Well, yes. There have been similar cases.”

  “Or, what if it really was just an accident? Oxford Street is famous for its shops and stores. The street is choked with pedestrians every day. It is quite possible that she was jostled by the crowd and involuntarily pushed out into traffic.

  “That may have happened.”

  “On the other hand, we have only her story about the push. Perhaps she made the whole thing up in order to raise suspicion against her stepmother. She has admitted to a long-standing animosity, at least on her stepmother’s part. This is not an easy problem, Watson, and great care must be taken to get to the real answers.”

  “But you told Mr. Liddle to guard her, to keep her away from windows.”

  “Yes. If she is truly in danger from outside forces, those precautions may save her life. However, if she is a danger to herself or others, those same precautions are just as valid. Mrs. Boddle’s room is on the third floor. If Lady Blanche, in a moment of madness, flung herself out a window…”

  “Oh, my God!”

  My companion nodded grimly and lapsed into silence. After we returned to our sitting room at Baker Street, Holmes rang for Mrs. Hudson. He scribbled out a message on a sheet of paper and shoved it into an enveloped, which he quickly addressed. He handed it to our landlady. “Give this to the commissionaire down the street. Have it delivered at once.”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

  Holmes filled his pipe and settled himself into his old armchair. “This is quite a three-pipe problem, my friend, and I do ask that you leave me to thrash it out alone. A false step at this stage could easily precipitate a disaster.”

  I retreated to my bedroom and tried to read a book. After a few minutes I admitted defeat. I could not concentrate on the story before me, but kept going back in my mind to the problems of the case. The Earl of Stillwater had died six weeks before. I reviewed the medical evidence. I could see no reason why there should be a question as to his final hours. Two doctors who had seen him shortly before he died had agreed on the diagnosis and signed the death certificate.

  Had Lady Blanche, understandably upset over her father’s unexpected passing, imagined the attack in Oxford Street from just a chance jostling on the busy street? Did she, finding herself among many strangers and much noise after weeks of mournful solitude, panic and run away needlessly, building up in her mind dangers that did not exist?

  Lady Blanche was convinced that her stepmother had tried to kill her. What motive could Lady Chillwater have to injure her stepdaughter? The girl had been hundreds of miles away when her father died. She could have no new knowledge of that evening. The earl’s brother had inherited the title and estate. He had no grudge against his sister-in-law. Lady Blanche was no threat to either of them. It all seemed incomprehensible to me.

  Could Lady Blanche be delusional? Could the shock and grief of her father’s unexpected death have driven her mad? There had been such cases previously in medical literature. I had encountered such patients myself during my student days. I reviewed my memories of the morning. She had appeared calm and rational, but I was not an expert of the workings of the troubled human mind. Subtle signs could have eluded me.

  I considered our young client. She was the most beautiful young woman I had ever seen in all my experiences of women which extended over three continents and many countries. Her face, her form, her hair, indeed her whole appearance struck me as being as lovely as a summer sunset. Could madness lurk behind those doe-like eyes? Could an unstable personality speak as clearly and as cogently through those perfect lips as she did before Sherlock Holmes and that company? Would Mr. Liddle and his entire firm of hard-headed solicitors accept her account if there was the least tinge of insanity behind it?

  I could reach no firm conclusion. When I came down for dinner Holmes was thumbing through an old blackletter book. Even his pipe had failed him. No answer had come from his letter. That evening we received a note from Mr. Liddle, saying that Lady Blanche had agreed to the terms he and Holmes had discussed.

  Much later, after I had retired to my room, the bell rang and I heard Mrs. Hudson’s stately tread come up the stairs. I looked over the balustrade and saw her knock on Holmes’ bedroom door. It open a few inches and a pale hand accepted the proffered note. The next morning when I asked about the late-night letter he ignored my query. Clearly he didn’t want to speak of it. I asked no more questions. Another case did not appear for over a week, during which I monitored Holmes’ rest and diet until I felt confident his health was restored.

  Time passed. Other problems were accepted that occupied his amazing mind and talents. The Lady Blanche Snodonia and her accusations against her stepmother had faded back into memory until a Tuesday afternoon in mid-December. We had already had several snowfalls, the drifts piling up in building corners and dirtying the streets with slush and ice. Cold winds exposed every crack around our sitting room windows and the sea-coal fire was welcoming to Sherlock Holmes and me as we returned from lunch at Romano’s.

  I was reaching for a magazine when the bell rang at
the street door. I went half-way down the stairs to see who it could be. Mrs. Hudson admitted a young man of twenty-five, with a shock of red hair and a freckled face. He announced that he was Nip, from Liddle, Klein, Lowe, Winzig and Short and had a note for Sherlock Holmes.

  I left him standing in the foyer and taking the stairs two at a time, carried the note up to Holmes. He ripped it open and after reading the contents, thrust it into my hands.

  “Please come at once and bring Dr. Watson. Lady Blanche has collapsed and does not respond. Liddle.”

  Nip had already sprung to the driver’s seat of the solicitors’ carriage as Holmes and I, with my medical bag, climbed in. We rushed back to Forestland Square.

  Bruce Weebairn, the short, bald clerk, opened the door. Mr. Liddle was waiting for us in the hall. “She was changing her dress and cried out. We found her on the floor and sent for help.”

  It took only a minute to reach Lady Blanche’s room at the top of the house. There we found Lady Blanche lying on a feather mattress in a polished brass bed. A black-coated man with a wispy head of brown hair was leaning over her. He turned at our entrance and said, “I’ve tried everything I know. She has sunk into a coma.”

  “Dr. Watson, Dr. Bavard. He saw her that first day,” gasped Mr. Liddle.

  “Sir.” We shook hands. He stepped aside. I examined Lady Blanche. Having collapsed during dressing she was wearing only a chemise. A thin sheet covered her body. Her breath was shallow and slow, her skin pale and damp. The pulse at her neck was weak and her eyes had rolled up in her head. Lady Blanche was in great distress and sinking.

  As I bent over my patient, Holmes wandered around the room. He stopped at a small opened trunk. On top was draped a green dress and a grey evening shawl. “Whose things are these?” he demanded. Mr. Liddle answered.