“Because of Sutton?” asked Miss Gatspy.
“Yes, in large part. But also,” he admitted more darkly, “I fear we shall uncover deeds more heinous still.”
FROM THE JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS
Although it is nearing midnight, G and Miss Gatspy remain closeted with M H in the sitting room, finishing their arrangements for the next two days. I have only just removed the plates from the supper I served them an hour ago— roast rack of lamb, potatoes dressed with onions, peas in a cream sauce, bread, butter, and Stilton and port to finish. I might have served hay and old boots for all the attention they gave the food.
G has prepared a stack of notes to be delivered at seven in the morning, and M H has put his signature to all of them, with the request that all confidentiality be preserved, so that the material requested may be kept under the Oath of Loyalty.
Sutton has been sleeping. He is somewhat feverish though he shows no indication of delirium. I have changed his dressings ten minutes ago, and I am certain he has not bled as much as Dr. W said he might, which is all to the good. The wound is dreadful to see, though Dr. W stitched it partially closed and will finish the job properly in two days if there is no serious infection. By noon tomorrow we should know much more about Sutton’s chance for recovery.
First thing in the morning I am to send a note around to Baker Street requesting that the gaggle of mudlarks who sometimes do errands for M H’s brother be set the task of identifying the men who are watching this flat. “I should have done it days ago, but I reckoned no action would be taken here,” says M H as he gives me the note. “I will be their fool only once. Now I will have them in my sights. And I shall not miss.”
LADY BRACKENHEATH WAS in full mourning, her veil concealing her face when I presented myself in her reception room at ten the following morning. The Brackenheath town house was draped in black crepe and all the servants were in grey and black.
“Mister Guthrie,” she said as she rose to greet me. She had chosen the one chair that had not been gutted. “I had your note, but why you should wish to meet in this room, at this hour, I cannot imagine. Still, I am sure you have an excellent reason, for this place . . .” She indicated the bruise on my face. “I would suppose being here would remind you too much of those events of two nights ago.”
“True enough, which is why my recollection is imperfect, and I stand in need of a reminder of what has transpired,” I said, and bowed enough for propriety. “I thank you for seeing me in this sad time.”
“Sad,” she repeated abstractly, and nodded twice. “I suppose it must be.” She sat down once again, and said quietly, “There is a reason to mourn today, I regret to tell you, one for which my sorrow is genuine. I had a letter today from my . . . friend. He will not be able to see me again. That has saddened the occasion more than . . . any of this.” She waved her gloved hands to indicate her mourning and the condition of the room. “He is right, of course. I would like to refute his reasons, but I know he is right. With my husband dead and attention on this house, we dare not continue. Any attempt to see each other will serve only to bring attention to us, which neither of us can afford.”
“I am sorry it has turned out so . . . unhappily for you,” I told her.
“Thank you. I know you are sincere, and so few would be, if they knew,” she said, continuing as if remembering something from her childhood. “By the time I am in half-mourning, he will be preparing to return home. And he will be closely observed in the intervening months. Our opportunities are—”
“Yes,” I agreed, taking up where she left off, “he will be watched. You both will.”
There was a little silence between us. Then she said, “You asked if we had discovered anything missing. Not as yet, no, we have not. Though we do not know what we ought to be looking for. But my staff did make one disquieting . . .” She pointed to the settee. “The upholstery on the back had been slit open and then carefully stitched up again, which two of the policemen think has been there for a long time, possibly to repair damage done many years ago.”
“What does Inspector FitzGerald think?” I asked. “Does he share their opinion?”
She looked startled at my question. “No. he does not. He is convinced that the cut was a recent one. He is also of the opinion that it was purposefully done, not the repair of an accident, with the intention of hiding an object. If we only knew what that object might be.” As she gazed around the room as if all the furnishings were unfamiliar to her she said, “I heard him remark that these other chairs were ruined to draw attention away from the settee, to make it look as if the vandalism had no specific object when, in fact, it did. And the drawers were emptied when the object of their search was not discovered.”
I stared at the mess. “When will your staff be permitted to put this all to order?”
“Not until tomorrow,” she said quietly. “The funeral is tomorrow afternoon.”
“It will be an ordeal for you, and I am sorry for it,” I said, as was expected, though in this case I was wholly sincere. I realized that there was nowhere I could sit down. Thank goodness my ankle was steady enough that I could manage without my cane, for I had left it back at my rooms in Curzon Street.
“Yes, it will.” She stared in the direction of the windows, with curtains drawn across the morning light, dark draperies tied back with black pulls. “I will have to accept condolences for the death of a man I despised, while I grieve for the man I love, who is now taken from me as surely as if he, and not my husband, had been killed. His cousin, who assumes the title, will be hard put to find virtues enough in my late husband to occupy more than a minute of his eulogy.” Her expression was mild. “I know I need not dissemble with you, Mister Guthrie, and for that I am deeply grateful. It is a welcome change to know I will not be compelled to present a false—”
“Lady Brackenheath, you need not explain,” I interrupted before she said more she might regret later. “Rest assured I expect no hypocritical observances from you. And I think none the less of you for your candor.” I saw a question in her eyes and I made an effort to put her as much at her ease as I was able. “In this investigation, I am aware that I must do all that I can to sift through many misrepresentations and half-truths, which are more difficult to identify than outright lies. Anyone who lessens the amount of deception I must deal with earns my gratitude.”
“You are gallant to say so,” she said, and sat back. “Tell me what you want to know and I will give my answer with as little bark on it as I can.”
I smiled at this old-fashioned expression. “Thank you, Lady Brackenheath.” I looked around the room, trying to find a way to start. “This furniture—it was yours or your husband’s?”
“My father provided the furnishing for this house and Lord Brackenheath’s principal seat as part of our marriage settlements. At Lord Brackenheath’s request, he repurchased certain suites of furniture Brackenheath had . . . parted with when he was younger. These pieces were one such suite, and the only one of those he demanded that I like.” She looked at them as if they were unfamiliar creatures in a zoological garden. “I think that Brackenheath did not so much prize this furniture as he liked to make my father dance to his tune.” She looked at the chair across from her. “We had them reupholstered, of course. That would have been necessary even if they had no signs of disrepair, for the colors of the fabric were faded badly.”
I regarded the once-handsome suite with curiosity. “These were purchased when, Lady Brackenheath?”
“Shortly before Lord Brackenheath and I married, as were all the furnishings you see in this house.” She laughed but the sound was rusty. “I have often wished I had had the selection of the furniture, for I flatter myself I would have achieved a better effect than has been the case here.”
“How do you mean?” I asked, encouraging her to talk freely.
Behind her veil her features were more animated. “Oh. Well, I know it isn’t the fashion, but I am fond of the Louis Quinze and the Empir
e modes. I like their shapes. The nearest I can achieve here is this Queen Anne. If the vandals had wanted to ruin furniture, there are a number of pieces in this house I could recommend to their attention. It offends me that this suite was the target, and it may be that it was purposefully chosen because of my liking for it. That is the sort of thing Lord Brackenheath might do, if the intrusion was arranged.” She cocked her head to the side. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”
I hesitated. “Yes,” I admitted after a moment.
She fixed her attention on me. “Not about . . . my friend? Nothing has happened to him? He is all right.”
“As far as I know, he is well. No, my inquiry strikes closer to home. It is about Lord Brackenheath, actually,” I said, and went to the sideboard. I wanted something to lean against since I could not sit down. I made myself as comfortable as I was able and then said, “How much do you know about your late husband’s financial affairs?”
“Everything, I should say, since the whole of our money comes from my father and is in my control,” she answered coolly. “Mister Gravesend is my man of business. He manages all the accounts, under my supervision. I will provide you his direction, if you wish it.”
I had heard of Florian Gravesend—he had a formidable reputation for impeccable honesty and the ruthless advancement of his patrons—and found myself more convinced than ever that something had occurred outside the usual dealings of the Brackenheath household. “I know where Mister Gravesend has his offices,” I assured her. “I will call upon him later today, if I may.”
“Certainly,” said Lady Brackenheath, her curiosity piqued. “I don’t know what more I can tell you. Lord Brackenheath received a quarterly sum for himself, as agreed in our marriage settlements. I never asked how he spent it, for that only served to give him reason to complain of what he considered the inadequate amount of the . . . allowance.”
“And what,” I asked, determined to shock her into an incautious response, “of the ten thousand pounds recently deposited to him?”
“Ten thousand . . .” She started to laugh. “He would rejoice at a quarter of that. He would crow like a cock on a dungheap.” Her laughter faded. “You are serious, aren’t you? How can that be? Ten thousand pounds?”
“Deposited to your husband’s account quite recently. In a single lump. The source so far is a mystery.” I studied her response, looking for any trace of deception.
She shook her head decisively. “I don’t believe it. Someone has been joking you,” she said. “No one would entrust Lord Brackenheath with such an amount.”
“Nevertheless, there is a deposit made to his account for that sum; we have seen the records of the transaction,” I told her, hoping she would now give me her complete attention. “Mister Holmes is convinced that it is essential to discover the source of the money if any determination regarding his death is to be made.” I did not want her to feel her position was not appreciated, so I added, “If making such inquiries is painful to you, then provide me the appropriate authorization and I will not bother you—”
But this was Herbert Bell’s child, and she had no intentions of handing over the reins. “It bothers me only that Lord Brackenheath had found a new source of income, known or unknown,” she said abruptly. “And now you are implying that the money may have bearing on his murder. Which smacks of blackmail, I must suppose. Heaven knows he might have tarnished many a reputation since his was beyond saving. And he was not one to flinch at such a despicable course.” She frowned. “It would not be appropriate for me to call upon Mister Gravesend before my husband”—the word became an insult in her mouth—“is buried, so I will give you an authorization at once, provided you inform me of anything you may discover.” The air of detachment was gone now. She sat straight in her chair, and her manner was animated. “Haggard will bring me paper, pen, and ink,” she went on as she rose and tugged the bell-pull. “I am amazed to learn of this,” she admitted as she went to the far corner of the room. “Is it possible the money was hidden in one of these chairs, and someone knew it?”
“Possible, most certainly,” I allowed, “but unlikely.” I rubbed my chin where the bruise was darkest. “It is,” I went on, giving her the benefit of Mycroft Holmes’ speculations of the night before, “more probable that the break-in was arranged so that certain items could be removed without the nature of the trade being brought to light, and no one would ever suspect that the damage was done as part of a specific search, but would be thought to be the result of robbery and vandalism. But my employer is not convinced. That ten thousand paid for something. Mister Holmes opines that the men we surprised on our return the other night were here to collect their purchase. That they had made an earlier arrangement to find the sequestered item in a prearranged place, and were to make it appear that no one piece of furniture or item was their target.”
“Not blackmail, then?” she asked, and glanced at the door as Haggard knocked. She motioned me to silence. “Come in, Haggard.” She told him she wished her portable desk, reminding him, “All the writing materials in this room ended up on the floor.”
“I will fetch it for you, M’lady,” he said, and left us alone.
“I will want to have a word or two with Haggard, as well,” I said.
“Ah?” She regarded me closely. “I will ask him to hold himself in readiness.” She sighed a little, as if she had recalled something. “I will request that Mister Gravesend provide me with copies of everything he makes available to you, if that is not unacceptable to Mister Holmes.”
“I should think he would be willing to have such an agreement.” There was no reason I could think of why this would not be acceptable. I did not want to have Lady Brackenheath filled with second thoughts about this matter. “It may be that you will discover more than we do.” She was experienced in the keeping of accounts and I was sure she would have the necessary tenacity to pursue even an unwelcome notion to its conclusion.
“I will do my best,” she said, with a note of stern determination in her voice that I found at once reassuring and disquieting; I was quite certain she would continue her investigation long after ours was concluded if she was not satisfied with Mycroft Holmes’ resolution of the matter.
“If you would like copies of the information we have, I will arrange for that to be brought to you after the funeral. I would not like to intrude on your sorrow.” I had not the authority to do this, but I was certain that she would require it and that it would be advantageous for my employer to have her sharp eyes to review what we had found.
“Yes, and I thank you for your tact,” she said, her determination increasing. “Yes, yes, please do that. I do not want to have to answer any more awkward questions than necessary.” She continued, as much to herself as to me, “Either Mister Gravesend or I would seem to have grown most inexcusably lax. How very vexing, that Lord Brackenheath should have achieved such a . . . victory, and I know nothing about it.”
“The sum was deposited anonymously, Lady Brackenheath, and under very guarded circumstances. You are not to blame yourself or Mister Gravesend for his success at the ploy. In a month, the whole matter would have come to light, and you would then have been able to pursue the affair yourself, without any interference.” I turned as Haggard once again entered the room, Lady Brackenheath’s portable desk in his hands.
“Well,” said Lady Brackenheath decisively, “you will want to be about your work quickly, Mister Guthrie. Thank you, Haggard. You may set it down on the table.”
“That I will,” said Haggard, and shot a quick glance in my direction. I surmised he wished to speak to me as much as I wanted to speak to him. He did not linger once he had carried out Lady Brackenheath’s instructions, but left us alone again.
Lady Brackenheath sat in front of her portable desk and drew out crested paper, a pen, and her inkwell. She inspected the nib of the pen, then set to work. Her hand, I noticed, was upright and elegant, definitely feminine but firm. When she was done writing she blo
tted the page, then sealed the note in an envelope and put Mister Gravesend’s name on it before handing it to me. “I have instructed him to lend you any assistance you might require, and to keep a full record of your dealings for me.”
“That is satisfactory,” I said, taking the envelope and putting it into my inner jacket pocket. “I thank you most sincerely for your help in this investigation. You have my word that your confidence will be respected.”
“I hope so,” she said bluntly. “I do not relish the thought of having my . . . privacy invaded by anyone, not even Mister Holmes.” She held out her hand to me, and I bent over it, not quite touching her glove with my lips. “I will await the information you mentioned with a great deal of interest.”
“Excellent,” I said, and prepared to take my leave. “You have made my work easier than it would have been, and I thank you for it.”
“Be about your business, Mister Guthrie,” she said, waving me away.
As I emerged from the room, I found Haggard waiting at the foot of the stairs, doing his best not to appear anxious. I nodded to him as I descended. I still did not move as quickly as I wished to, but I made myself be careful, for the last thing I wanted now was a fresh injury.
“Mister Guthrie, if you will let me have a moment?” said Haggard as I reached him.
“Gladly,” I said, “for I have a few questions I must put to you.”
He indicated the corridor to the servants’ part of the house. “If you will come with me?”
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