by Marvin Kaye
The empty pipe came out of Holmes’s mouth and his eyes brightened. “For what reason, Inspector?”
“Well, you like strange stories, Mr. Holmes, and here’s one for your notebook. Mrs. Paige is suffering from the delusion that her real name is Emma Jane Darlington. Better known as Lady Darlington.”
“Is that really so strange?” I said. “How many Napoleons and Lord Nelsons are in Bedlam this very minute?”
“But you miss the point, Watson,” Holmes said. “One can understand a madman believing himself to be a famous personage, even a god. But why this rather obscure wife of a relatively obscure patrician?”
“I can tell you that,” Lestrade said. “She looks like the woman.”
“You mean there’s a physical resemblance?”
“How would she know?” I asked. “Being behind bars for the past twelve months?”
“Because of the Rotogravure,” the Inspector said. He pulled a folded newspaper clipping out of his pocket, revealing that his interest in this matter ran deep. He handed it to Holmes, and I was forced to look over his shoulder.
“It’s a wedding photo,” Holmes said.
“Of course,” I replied. “Now I remember. This Lord Darlington was something of a roue, but he finally decided to marry. Probably because his father was threatening him with disinheritance if he didn’t settle down, produce an heir or two!” I chuckled, but my companions didn’t seem amused. I took the clipping from Holmes’s hand and studied the sweet, simple face of the bride. The clipping was dated October 1.
“It caused a bit of a stir, this marriage,” Lestrade said. “Not that I follow the gossip columns. Mainly because the bride’s father is a tea and coffee importer. Hardly blue blood.”
“Lovely girl just the same,” I said in her defence.
“Yes,” Holmes said, “And Mrs. Paige saw this lovely girl in the newspaper, noted the resemblance, and decided that she was the happy bride.”
“Exactly,” Lestrade said gravely. “And that’s when the trouble began. She started shrieking night and day that her husband, Lord Darlington, had betrayed her. That he had put her into this prison in order to continue his abandoned life. She begged and pleaded with her guards to help her, to call her family, her friends, even Darlington himself. She was uncontrollable, Mr. Holmes, totally and completely insane.”
“How terrible,” I said. “But of course, the woman found her life unbearable. Therefore, she invented a new one.”
“Bravo,” Holmes said, smiling at me without irony for a change. “Dr. Watson has diagnosed the case with accuracy. Don’t you agree, Inspector?”
“Yes,” Lestrade said grudgingly. “It has to be the truth.” He pulled a large repeater out of his watch pocket and shook his head. “Almost midnight,” he said. “I suppose I should be on my way home.”
“One more to toast the new year,” I said, pouring him a largish brandy. He took it readily enough, lifted it in the air, and we all wished ourselves a Happy 1895. His glass was almost empty when he said, “But I didn’t tell you about Lord Darlington’s visit to the Institute.”
Once again, Holmes brightened.
“Are you saying that Lord Darlington actually visited this woman?”
“Yes,” Lestrade said. “Somehow, the story of Mrs. Paige’s delusion reached his ear, and he got in touch with one of the physicians in charge. He wondered if perhaps the woman might be helped by a personal visit from Darlington and his wife.”
“A reasonable notion,” I said. “If she was rational enough to believe her own eyes . . .”
“A very kind offer,” Holmes said, his mouth twisting cynically. “But not one would expect from a man of Darlington’s reputation. He was hardly an altruistic type.”
“It was his wife’s idea, I believe. She convinced him that it would be an act of charity. They went to see her together, but with unfortunate consequences. Not only did they fail to convince her, but Mrs. Paige took revenge on the institution by trying to burn it down!”
“Good Lord!” I said.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” Holmes said, his gaze as intense as an eagle’s.
“The details are still a bit cloudy. When the couple arrived, the Institute directors naturally wanted to protect their safety, and assigned a guard to supervise their meeting. Mrs. Paige objected violently; she would only talk to the Darlingtons alone. Rufus Darlington convinced them to allow this departure from precedent. He was confident he could handle any situation.”
I glanced at the wedding photograph again. “He looks capable enough. Rather gigantic physically.”
“A collegiate boxing champion,” Lestrade grunted. “Obviously, he had little to fear from the madwoman. But he was wrong. While they were alone in Mrs. Paige’s room, he made the mistake of lighting his pipe. She suddenly seized his matches, and quickly set her mattress on fire. By the time they obtained help, the whole room was ablaze!”
“Yes,” I said. “I recall some small news story about that.”
“It wasn’t worthy of large headlines,” Lestrade said. “But it did have a tragic consequence. Mrs. Paige was badly burned on most of her upper body. And worst of all, the visit failed to rid her of her delusion. If anything, her condition worsened.”
Holmes had not said a word for the last few minutes. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing shallowly. I had a moment of alarm, knowing his medical condition. I touched him on the shoulder, but when he opened his eyes they were mere slits.
“I think Mr. Holmes should be in bed,” I told the Inspector sternly. “He has not been well for the past three days, and I’m afraid this visit has tired him to the point of exhaustion.”
Lestrade rose quickly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no idea . . .”
“Of course not,” I said. “Because Mr. Holmes was indulging in one of his favorite pastimes—pretending to be someone else. In this case, a person in good health!”
A flustered Inspector Lestrade left a few minutes later, with many apologies for his lack of insight. I accepted them cordially. But when I returned to Holmes, insisting on his immediate retirement, he looked at me so strangely that I wondered if the fever which had taken two days to subside had returned.
Then he spoke. “I would like to see a doctor.”
I reminded him that I still bore the title.
“I want to see a very specific doctor, Watson. Tomorrow.”
“But why?”
“Because,” he said, his voice as sonorous as a church bell, “it’s a matter of life and death. Not my own, dear fellow,” he added, seeing my expression.
I woke the next morning a good hour and forty minutes past my usual waking time, surely the result of the surplus brandy I had ingested the night before.
I had an uneasy feeling that Holmes was no longer in his sickbed. I heard the distinct rattle of a cup and saucer, and poking my feet into a pair of slippers, I padded out into the parlour, to see a fully dressed Holmes making himself a cup of tea.
“It’s all right,” he said in a strained voice. “I’m quite well, Watson, I assure you. I tested my temperature this morning, and it was a smidgeon below normal. I did not cough all night, and my head is clear.”
“Surely you don’t mean to leave the house?”
“It wasn’t easy to obtain the addresses I needed, but as it happens, one of the butlers who serves in Lord Darlington’s household is an avid reader of your stories in The Strand. He was thrilled to talk to me, once I convinced him that I was not merely a fictional character.”
“But what addresses did you want?”
“For one thing, the present location of Lord Darlington and his bride . . . It seems that they’ve gone off on still another honeymoon, this time around the world, a trip bound to last a year or two. Then Lord Darlington reports to a diplomatic post on the island of Anguilla, a rather smallish outpost in the Caribbean.”
I was becoming irritated. “What does all that matter, Holmes?”
“It matters a
great deal,” he answered. “But what matters even more is the name of Lord Darlington’s personal physician. It’s Blevin. Dr. Hugo Blevin. Do you know him, Watson?”
“Well, yes,” I said. “I’ve met Blevin a few times, at medical conventions. I wouldn’t say we were friends, but we are definitely acquaintances.”
Holmes smiled broadly. “Then I can use your name as a reference,” he said cheerfully, and sailed towards the door, scooping up his greatcoat as he went. He paused in the open doorway, and his lightheartedness vanished like melted snow.
“And when I return, Watson,” he said, in a voice flattened by serious purpose, “you and I are going to visit the Institute for the Criminal Insane.”
It was some six hours later that I heard the voice of Sherlock Holmes in the downstairs hallway, consulting Mrs. Hudson about some domestic matter. I had spent the day studying my notes on the Musgrave Ritual affair, but my mind kept wandering back to Inspector Lestrade’s visit and Holmes’s curious reaction to the story he had related. I simply could not understand my friend’s interest in a case whose central mystery was only in the mind of a deranged woman.
When he appeared in the doorway, my first thought was for his well-being. There was indeed a feverish look in his eyes, and I was prepared to insist on an examination, but Holmes quickly quashed the idea.
“We must leave at once, Watson,” he said. “We must not let this helpless victim suffer another minute more than necessary!”
“Victim? Suffer? What are you talking about, Holmes?”
“My carriage is downstairs. Take your medical bag; it might be necessary. And dress warmly. The air is frigid, and I don’t want you to risk your health.”
Considering who had been ill these past few days, the remark seemed highly inappropriate. But then I realized that Holmes was pulling my leg, an indirect sign of his affection.
When we reached the Institute, the first guardian of its portals proved to be a stout Welshman with fierce moustaches. For once, Holmes let me do the talking. I gave him my credentials, and asked to see the highest possible authority on a matter of grave importance. This proved to be a thin, ascetic gentleman named Stokes, who heard our names and began to wheeze with excitement.
“Mr. Holmes!” he said. “What a pleasure to meet you in the flesh! Only yesterday I read of your exploits with that nefarious Red-Headed League!” He ruffled his own reddish crown and grinned toothily. “I might well have been victimized myself.”
“Speaking of victims,” Holmes said cordially, “we were wondering if we could spend some time with your patient, Mrs. Paige. It’s a matter of some importance, but I’m sure you’ll understand that I cannot reveal its confidential nature.”
Stokes looked dismayed at this, but I could see that he was in such awe of The Great Detective that he would not be denied. After a stream of warnings concerning her uncontrollable state, he led us to a door with a small glass panel through which we could discern nothing.
“Her sedative is not scheduled for another hour,” Stokes said, “but I’ll arrange to have it administered at once, so that your encounter will be less troublesome.”
He was about to instruct a matron, but Holmes swiftly intervened.
“No,” he said. “We need to speak to the woman with her mind alert.”
“Her mind, Mr. Holmes?” Stokes shook his head ruefully. “But her mind is a disordered place, full of wild imaginings.”
“Nevertheless,” Holmes said firmly.
Of course, he won the point, and after careful unlocking, we were admitted into the room of the pitiful Mrs. Paige.
It was a small chamber, with its walls padded with a vile pinkish cloth. There were only three items of furniture: a narrow bed without either foot or headboard, a table with rounded corners, and a rocking chair drawn up to the barred window.
The woman in the chair turned to stare at us as we entered, and I tried to stifle the sound that came to my throat. I am a physician, after all, and I have seen many disfigured patients. Actually, it wasn’t the dirty facial bandages, the unkempt hair, or the healing wounds which shocked me; it was the haunted look in her eyes, as if she had been allowed a glimpse of Hell.
“What do you want?” she croaked, her voice hoarse from endless bouts of shouts and screams. “When will you stop bothering me?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes, madam; I am a Consulting Detective. This is my associate, Dr. John Watson.”
“Another doctor come to poke at me!”
“We are not here to trouble you,” Holmes said evenly. “We have come on an important mission—to give you an opportunity to prove the truth of your outlandish claim. Will you answer one question for us?”
“No!” she cried. “I’ve had enough questions! None of you care about my answers! Get out, out!”
“This might be the most important question you have ever heard. Your life, your future, your freedom may depend upon your reply. Will you listen?”
The rigidity of Holmes’s posture, his emotionless tone, the absence of neither indulgence nor pity seemed to startle the woman. She nodded, her unkempt black hair falling in a dirty tangle over her bandaged face.
“Very well,” she said, “What is it?”
“I would like to know,” Holmes said, “if this phrase holds any significance for you: the Ace of Spades.”
She stared at him vacantly, and I’m sure her surprised expression was a mirror of my own.
“The Ace of Spades?” she said scornfully. “I thought I was the one supposed to be mad!”
“Think carefully, madam,” Holmes said.
She rose from the rocking chair and turned her face to the window, so thick with grime that the only view it afforded was pale winter sunlight. Then her narrow shoulders lifted slightly, and she turned.
“The Ace of Spades,” she repeated slowly. “The birthmark. On his upper right thigh.”
If there was even a flicker of acknowledgment on the face of Sherlock Holmes, I missed it by staring open-mouthed at the woman by the viewless window. By the time I turned my attention back to him, that face was wholly transformed. Instead of the carved, stony countenance he could adopt so easily, his features had melted into a look of mingled triumph and—what would be the right word? Compassion.
A smile flickered across his lips, and Holmes said, “I will promise you this, Lady Darlington. I will obtain your release within the next few days. But I cannot predict how long it will take to bring your monstrous husband to justice.”
I now understood why Holmes had insisted upon my bringing my black bag. No sooner did he speak these last two sentences than the woman’s legs gave out and she crumpled to the floor in a dead faint. It was almost an hour before she was fully recovered, and during that waiting period, I learned the rest of the story as deduced by that astonishing convoluted organ that was the brain of Sherlock Holmes.
It wasn’t one fact alone that Inspector Lestrade offered which made me suspicious,” Holmes said. “It was the odd combination of events. The fact that Rufus Darlington, for all his aristocratic pretensions, married the daughter of a tea merchant. The fact that he learned ‘somehow’—to use Inspector Lestrade’s word—about Mrs. Paige’s odd delusion, and allowed his wife to convince him to make a mercy mission to a madhouse. The fact that Mrs. Paige insisted on being alone with the couple. The fire that succeeded in maiming her. And then, the quick departure of Darlington and his bride on a long cruise and a distant address . . . Do you see the pattern, Watson?”
“No,” I had to admit. “I do not!”
“Rufus Darlington was a murderer,” Holmes said. “A murderer who escaped the law, behind the skirts of a woman.”
“Good heavens, Holmes! Do you mean Darlington shot Carlton Paige?”
“Mr. Paige discovered the affaire between Darlington and his wife. And being a brutal husband, he punished her with a beating that enraged His Lordship enough to make him take a gun to the Paige household. He may have meant only to threaten Paige, but as
often happens in such cases, the gun was fired.”
“But—Mrs. Paige took the blame!”
“A very noble woman, in her own way,” Holmes said drily. “But I suspect that Darlington himself suggested it, promising her that a beaten wife would receive sympathetic treatment in the courts of law. As you know, there was no leniency. Mrs. Paige was sentenced for life.
“It was then that Darlington vowed she would be free, that he would find some way of gaining her release, to repay her for shielding him. It was a daring scheme he concocted, but Rufus Darlington was a daring man . . . It took him many months of ‘scouting the field’ until he spotted a young woman who sufficiently resembled the new inmate of the Women’s Prison. He wooed her passionately, and won her easily. She was beneath his station, of course, but that did not matter. All that mattered was—the resemblance.”
Now the light began to dawn in my own mind. “Her ‘delusion’! It was all play-acting, wasn’t it? She was only pretending that she believed herself to be Lady Darlington.”
“It was preparation,” Holmes said gravely. “Establishing the mental madness that would precede the real Mrs. Darlington’s mental condition when the two women traded places.”
“So that was the purpose of their visit—to effect the trade.”
“Of course. They overpowered the innocent Mrs. Darlington, switched clothing, and started the fire they hoped might destroy all possible evidence.”
“You mean they would not have been concerned if the poor girl burned to death!”
“No,” Holmes said grimly. “But it hardly mattered when she survived. She was still recognized as a prisoner, with the very same delusion of grandeur . . . And Lord and ‘Lady’ Darlington were free to travel the world and then live on an idyllic island where no one would ever question her identity . . .”
“And that’s why you visited Dr. Blevin. To determine if there were identifying marks or scars which only his wife would know.”
