Repeat Business

by Lyn McConchie

  “And you, Holmes, what will you be doing?”

  “I shall discover Romford’s true business.” I raised my brows at him. “Ah, Watson, did you not hear the lady? She knows only that he is a businessman and wealthy, but she has no idea of what it is that he does. Romford, he tells her, is often out very late at night or gone overnight, so that he would have Miss Burnett in the house for his daughters’ sake. But his brother is present on most nights. Could they not see to it that one or the other is always present if they have some reason to fear for the girls’ safety? And what of their seven servants, four of them men; how is it that they offer no protection where Miss Burnett alone can apparently do so?”

  “I see what you mean, Holmes. It is all very strange. Well, I will find the doctor and discover what he may tell me.”

  I met Holmes the next evening as I wearily returned. He too looked rather more tired than was his wont, and I was glad when we could be seated in his rooms and partake of the hearty meal provided for us as soon as we arrived and had washed London’s grime from our persons.

  “Begin, Watson.” Holmes invited me, and I was nothing loath.

  “I found the Romfords’ doctor, he is a young man just starting out, and eager to take any patient who may pay well. It is for that reason he seems to have overlooked certain irregularities.” I saw my friend become alert at once.

  “Yes, Holmes. In the past year Mr. Romford has brought a number of people to Doctor Malden, describing them each time as one of his servants, the child of such a person, or the servant or child of a friend. All whom he brought to Malden spoke English, but with strong foreign accents, and the doctor says that the medical or dental care they had previously received was such as indicated they were recently arrived in England.

  “At the same time he is convinced that they were never servants, nor were they poor people—or not until recently—having none of the attitude or mannerisms of those who habitually serve others. He said that in addition, none had ever been ill fed and their clothing was of good quality although of foreign cut. Now it is your turn, Holmes, what did you discover?”

  “Romford has no obvious reason to be out late at night,” Holmes informed me thoughtfully. “He is a furrier, well known and trusted in the trade, who provides furs for the wealthy and titled and by so doing has grown wealthy himself. His grandfather, a Russian Jew who escaped a pogrom with his family and a number of small portable valuables sewn inside their clothing, began the business. Romford’s grandfather was Rosenbaum, but the son espoused Christianity and changed his name to Romford. He married an English girl, as did Romford.”

  “What of Romford’s wife and mother then?” I asked.

  “Romford’s mother and father died in an influenza epidemic when he was in his late twenties. He had wed by then and they lived to see the first of their grandchildren. However, his wife died of complications in childbed after the birth of Felicia.”

  “Could it be that he resents the child? Perhaps her mother too was a talented artist and he dislikes to be reminded of her? That could be why he tore up the child’s sketch.”

  “I think not, Watson. Miss Burnett, as you may recall, stated that it was not until Romford had looked at a number of Felicia’s sketches that he chose one to destroy. No, I am convinced that he saw something in that sketch which rendered him apprehensive.”

  He opened the bureau in which the copy of that sketch resided and laid it on the table. “According to Miss Burnett, the sketch was of people surveying the animals. See, the cages and beasts are only indicated. I believe it was intended to be a study of visitors to the zoological gardens. I think it therefore most likely that it was one of those people Romford may have recognized.”

  “Someone he feared?”

  “Say, rather, someone of whom he did not wish to have a likeness available.”

  “For himself, but he would know how the person appeared, or he would not have disposed of the sketch?”

  “Quite so, Watson. So there we may have a small piece of the puzzle. In the villa there resides one from whom Romford is keeping a secret. It is unlikely to be his daughters, Miss Burnett’s impression was that whatever secret is held, they have some idea of it and stand with their father in this. I have arranged for urgent inquiries to be made about the servants and Romford’s brother; I should hear something about them shortly.”

  I was busy the next day as there was influenza about again and several of my patients were unwell. It is an unpleasant disease and can be fatal often enough so that I was assiduous in my care and made certain my patients knew what must be done for their condition. I returned late to find Holmes brooding by the fire.

  “I have the information on the servants, Watson, and I think there is nothing there for us.” was his greeting.

  I laid my medical case upon the floor and sat down wearily. “What have you learned?”

  “That the cook is a cook, the valets, valets, and the maids all genuine maids. They seem to have lived relatively blameless lives for so long as they have been in any employment—I discard such information as a complaint that the cook is over-fond of sherry in the trifle, and that one of the maids is flighty, having been seen smiling at the butcher’s boy.” Here he poured me a stiff whiskey. “I think we can ignore these people. Which leaves us with Romford and his brother.”

  “You considered Romford,” I reminded him. “As for the brother, he has lived there too short a time to provide much.…”

  Holmes took me up sharply. “Too short a time, yes. Miss Burnett said, did she not, that Romford’s brother was recently come to live with them? Thank you, Watson, your reminder may be useful to us.”

  I was uncertain in what way my mention of Gerald Romford’s recent arrival could be of any use, but if I had aided Holmes I could only be pleased at it. It appeared that I had done so—for on the following day Holmes received both information from the inquiries he had caused to be made, and a letter from Mycroft.

  On the information he was clear to me. “Nothing, Watson. The man seems not to exist. There is no record of his entering the country, his name appears on no passenger lists, he is known to no bank, and he is not registered as having been born in England or indeed anywhere in Britain. He seems to have no close friends, he pays cash when he makes any small purchase and is, while not being unpleasant, very aloof to any with whom he comes in contact. I have observed him at a distance and he is that useful person, a man so average as to be unnoticeable.”

  “Useful, Holmes?”

  He made no reply but opened the letter from Mycroft. It was very brief, merely requesting that Holmes meet him the following evening at his club, and adding that I was also welcome should I wish to join them.

  “Mycroft,” Holmes said meditatively. “I wonder what he can want of us? He travels in interesting circles.”

  “Hardly traveling,” I said somewhat dryly. Holmes’ brother was known for his sedentary habits, which, as a doctor, I deplored.

  “True, but it is surprising what he learns. I think he may have something to impart, since he rarely requests me to call save that he knows something, or wishes to learn something from me.”

  “Could it be that your inquiries about the Romfords have come to his ears?”

  Holmes nodded. “I believe it may be so, I will continue my inquiries tomorrow, Watson, and we shall meet here at seven before going on to Mycroft’s club—if that will suit you?” I replied that it would suit me very well, and it was with that agreement that we parted.

  We met again as agreed at seven the next evening. I had had a quick wash and was about to don a good suit when I heard a ring at the doorbell, followed by Mrs. Hudson’s voice.

  “Mr. Holmes, sir? Doctor Watson? There is a lad here with a message he must give into your hands.”

  While I dressed hastily, Holmes was there first, taking the sealed note from the boy and asking him several questions I did not hear before sending him on his way with a coin. He opened the letter neatly and I watched as
his gaze traveled the lines.

  “Who is it from, Holmes?”

  “It is from Miss Burnett. She writes in great haste saying that something terrible has occurred and asking if we can come at once to her address.”

  “Do we go now, Holmes? Mycroft is expecting us in two hours?” He studied the envelope carefully before making a reply, testing the seal with his fingers, bending the paper to and fro and peering closely at the way it had been creased before he replied.

  “I think we do, my dear Watson. See here, the paper was bulged about something. The lad said that the note was thrown to him from an upper window with a shilling under the seal. He understood from that that he was to deliver the note and I too would pay him. You may ask yourself why a letter should be thrown rather than given, and the answer may be that the sender was afraid, unwilling, or perhaps unable to leave the house.”

  He sat, taking pen and paper. “Do not wear your good clothing, Watson, and place your revolver in your coat pocket, we may have need of it. I will write to Mycroft saying we have been delayed and telling him something of the reasons. I fear what we shall find—but at last some of the threads are in my hands and it is likely that Mycroft has others.”

  “You believe that he wishes to see us because he too is interested in Miss Burnett’s employer?” I asked.

  “In Mr. Romford’s brother,” Holmes corrected. “I suspect I know what the man is, if I have not yet discovered his name.” As we spoke we were hurrying to prepare. Holmes completed his note, sealed it, and summoned a lad to take it at once to Mycroft. Then we entered the waiting cab and drove towards Finchley with Holmes demanding more speed.

  Once at the villa Holmes paid the driver and bade him leave. The man, who had been eyeing us suspiciously, wasted no time but flicked his horse with the reins and rattled away. Holmes turned to look at the house before darting forward with an exclamation. I followed him and stared at the hole in the door.

  “A bullet hole, Holmes,” I exclaimed.

  “Yes, there was good reason for the lady to send for us. But the house may have its defenders. We shall walk to the back and see if we can make ourselves noticed by those within.”

  It was my friend with his sharp eyes who observed Miss Burnett waving from an upper window. He moved into cover and from there he called to her, she replied, and in no more than three minutes she was almost dragging us through the front door, slamming, bolting and locking it behind us. She then addressed us urgently.

  “Come away from before the door, gentlemen. They have shot through it once and may do so again.”

  I looked down as she spoke and made an observation. “There is blood here.”

  “Mr. Romford was shot. The servants all left at midday and we were attacked shortly thereafter. The telephone wire has been cut and I have been alone with a wounded man and three children ever since. I do not know why this is happening, but,” and here her eyes flashed, “it is disgraceful that a house should be attacked where children reside.”

  Holmes nodded. “What of Mr. Romford’s brother?”

  “He went out before the servants and is not yet returned.”

  “Don’t let him in if he does,” Holmes said firmly. “I have reason to believe he may be responsible for the attack, and he is not Mr. Romford’s brother in any case.”

  “Not Mr. Romford’s brother? Then who is he?”

  “I cannot tell you his name at this moment, but he is a dangerous man. Keep up your courage, help is on the way.” While he was speaking, I had run up the stairs and was examining the injured man, who had lost a considerable amount of blood from a wound to one side of his chest. He was unconscious on the divan in the nursery, and his daughters sat around him, white faces showing their fear.

  I called to Holmes. “Mr. Romford is wounded, but while it is serious it should not be fatal. Someone has very sensibly staunched the bleeding and the bullet has passed through. He may regain consciousness shortly.”

  To which he replied that was well, and I should keep my revolver where it could be seized at need. “They will have seen us enter, and will guess us to have summoned help. They must attack before reinforcements arrive.”

  “But what is it that they seek, Holmes? This is England, not some foreign country where such outrages are common.”

  “They seek me, or rather, they seek to silence us all.” Mr. Romford’s voice was weak, but clear. “Listen, you say help comes, I will tell you all so that if one of you survives England will be warned.”

  I would have bid him save his strength, but for his last words. He saw by my face that I understood and would listen, and, as Holmes and Miss Burnett entered, Mr. Romford began to explain, beginning with a question to Holmes. “Do you know my grandfather’s story, sir?”

  “I do.” Miss Burnett looked a question and my friend quickly told her of our discoveries. Romford nodded.

  “Good, good. Know then that firstly Gerald is not my brother but my would-be killer. He is a man of violence and of many names, who seeks to murder our Queen’s ministers to bring about chaos in your government.”

  “He is, then, a Bolshevik?” Holmes asked.

  “Of the most fanatical kind. Listen. I was approached some years ago to help some of my people to leave Russia where they are persecuted. Most had money or small portable treasures and thus the ability to start again in a new land if they could escape with what they owned. It was perhaps not quite legal that I did this, but I aided people who had been treated with the utmost cruelty, people who would love England once they were safe here, and my conscience is clear.

  “Then Gerald came to me saying that I must give him a room in my house and help him to achieve his goal. He told me of it—and I refused at once until he threatened my daughters, saying that he would weave a net of lies about us and then expose me to the police. I would appear as one who had betrayed my country for money, I would be imprisoned, and my children would be taken from me.

  “For their sake I agreed to shelter him, but secretly I listened to his meetings with others of his kind, I learned much of them and their plans, and everything I learned I wrote down and hid the paper,s hoping if Gerald carried out his threats I could bargain for my children. I introduced a governess into the house, praying that she would come to care for my children, that if I was slain she could be prevailed upon to remain with them so they would not be separated. There is ample money for them yet, even if that beast in gentleman’s clothing has taken some to pay for his plots.”

  Holmes spoke gently. “The papers, where are they?”

  “Under a floorboard beneath my bed. Please, save my children—and Miss Burnett to whom I owe my life. She it was who dragged me from the doorway and only seconds later they fired again through the hole so that had I still been lying there I must have died. She is a good woman and one of great courage.”

  “I shall do my best to keep us all alive, as will my friend.” Holmes said before he disappeared into the bedroom. I heard the sound of wood sliding over wood before Holmes returned with a large bundle of papers in one hand. He weighed the bundle.

  “There is sufficient information here to bring down a very pretty gang of conspirators. I will break them into four parts and each of the women shall carry one. That way, if anything happens we may retain some portion for the authorities.” He did as he had said and no sooner had each of the women stowed their share of the papers away securely than there was a furious assault on the door.

  I opened a window silently, leaned out, and fired once. From below, there came a scream of pain and a flood of language of the sort unfit for children to hear. I shut the window at once, moved to the further room, and peered down. From here I could see the roof over the porch, but not into the small sheltered area about the front door. However, I could hear that our attackers had renewed their assault upon the door. They would soon be into the house and I had only five bullets. I must make every shot count or it would be the women and children who suffered.

  Holmes joined m
e. “Mycroft knew something of this and planned to tell us tonight. He will have had my note by now, and while he is disinclined to stir out of his chair at the club, he will have had no hesitation in sending others.”

  “When may they arrive?” I asked as the battering from below became deafening.

  Holmes calculated. “Soon, I believe. Shoot to kill, Watson; we have no other choice, and they are desperate men who appear to have something of an army available to them.”

  And with that we heard the crash of the door giving way, shouts of triumph, and the clattering of heavy boots upon the floor. I moved out to the top of the landing, lay flat behind the balustrade—which gave me some protection—and prepared to sell our lives dearly.

  Miss Burnett joined me, crouching on the other side of the landing and producing a tiny, two-shot pocket pistol. “I am a good shot, my husband taught me, and so long as I live they shall not harm the girls.”

  From behind me I heard a rustle of clothing and looked back to find all three of the children standing in the nursery doorway; each of them held some weapon and if their faces were white with fear, still real determination to protect their father shone in their eyes.

  “We have an army, also, or so it would seem.” Holmes observed wryly.

  A voice shouted up in some language that I did not understand as Holmes translated. “They say we are to surrender.” More shouts. “They say if we give them Romford, the rest of us may leave unharmed.”

  “Do you believe them?” I asked softly.

  “No, my dear Watson. Lies follow their kind as flies follow cattle. They will make one or two attacks, but if we hold firm they may draw off a little. Help will be coming if we can keep them back long enough.”

  I said nothing. I had been an army doctor in Afghanistan for some years, and I had seen what could happen to those who were trapped and brought to bay. If we resisted, our attackers would draw back as Holmes said, but after that they would find another method of persuasion, and I could guess from experience what it might be.

  Up the stairs there came the rush of feet I had been expecting. The attackers had only cudgels and knives, so that I waited until the first man had almost reached me, then, as he would have struck, I fired. He fell back, was tossed aside over the banisters and the attackers came on. I shot again and a second man fell. Two men were fighting to reach me and I shot one, but the other was past him and upon me. Miss Burnett leaned over and fired her small pistol full into his face. He screamed and fell, staggered up to his knees and she fired again so that he sprawled upon the landing and lay silent. Miss Burnett slipped away and turned back to watch the stairs.