Sherlock Holmes

by Lyn McConchie

  Holmes stood. “Then leave it to me. I have no case on just now and can spare a day or two.”

  “You mean it, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I do.”

  “Then I thank you, sir. I do indeed. I must be going, for I have taken up too much of your time, but thank you again.” And with that he thrust the diary into his coat pocket and departed. I addressed Holmes.

  “Where do we begin?”

  “At the street given as Miss Irene’s original address. I know the people of that area; they suspected the motives of the police in asking for the lady. To us they will be more forthcoming.”

  I had little doubt of that and I was right. Holmes dressed down for the occasion, while I merely donned my oldest suit, and together we took a cab to the address. There, having been primed by my friend on what to say, I began working my way down the street of semi-detached houses, asking at each home if anyone had lived there for many years. I would inquire at three houses, then cross the road and ask my questions in the houses opposite.

  It took time and still I found no one, or no one who would admit to it. No one seemed suspicious, or was unduly unpleasant, fortunately, and I pursued my way for some distance until I reached the cross street, at which time I returned to report to Holmes. He was waiting for me as I came up.

  “I have found someone, or so I think. I have been told by several people that in this house,” he indicated the one by which we were currently standing and which was some eight or nine houses down and across the street from the address Miss Jarvis may once have occupied, “is an elderly lady who has lived there since her husband purchased it almost forty years gone.”

  “Forty years ago,” I said doubtfully.

  “She had daughters, Watson. Two, who would now be in their late thirties.” I waited. “Do you not see? Wimbledon was said to be forty-five. It is possible that Miss Irene is a relative, for if she were much older than he, surely he would not have been so certain that she yet lived to inherit. My working hypothesis is that she is a younger sister or cousin who lived here. Therefore the daughters may have been of similar age.”

  “And therefore would know Miss Irene, and may even have been playmates,” I said. “Yes, I do see. Let us go and ask.”

  Holmes nodded. “That was my intention.” And with that he opened the small gate, allowed me to pass through, and shut it behind us before advancing on the door. Here he seized the knocker and rapped it several times, which produced a prompt reply. A small, plump woman opened the door and glared.

  “I’m not deaf. Who’re you and what do you want?”

  Holmes bowed. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend, Dr. Watson.”

  Before he could say more she announced, “Heard of you, some sort of private detective, aren’t you? Well then, I’ve no secrets to be nosed out so it must be someone else you want, and you think that I know them, don’t you. Who is it?”

  “Would you prefer I ask questions here?” Holmes asked mildly.

  “What? Oh, I see. All right, wipe your feet and come in.” We did so and were shown into the front parlor, which, to my surprise, was not the usual rarely-used room filled with over-stuffed, uncomfortable furniture and shrouded in dim light, but a pleasantly bright room, with furniture that, as I discovered when we sat, had been crafted to positively invite comfort. I commented on it.

  “Yes, while my father lived here before he died, his hobby was to make furniture. He said if more people sat in comfort more would get done. He had no time for rooms where you could barely see anyone either, and I agree with him, so I keep the room as it was. Now, in case no one told you, I’m Mrs. Trelan, Elaine Trelan—silly name, but my mother liked that poem, The Lady of Shallott, and my father indulged her. What can I do for you?”

  Holmes’s gaze met hers. “A man died some weeks ago. Upon his death he was found to have left almost his entire estate to a lady named Irene Jarvis, with an address in this street. However, upon the police inquiring for the lady, no one admitted to knowing her.” He paused. I was watching closely and I thought that she did know the name. My friend resumed. “The circumstances are these. The dead man had previously made three wills over the past twenty years. His first left his entire estate to the lady, the second was somewhat different, but the last will reverted to leaving her almost all of his property.”

  He drew out a copy of that portion of the will, which I had been unaware he possessed. “See for yourself. There is this, however; I believe that he had not been in contact with Miss Jarvis for all or most of that twenty years. She may have married, moved, or even died. If I am right, he did not know of her present whereabouts or circumstances, but he did wish her to receive what he had to leave, which is, ah…” He hesitated.

  “A lot of money, I’d guess,” Mrs. Trelan completed the sentence for him. “And you don’t want to put it in the papers and have a line of people turning up saying they’re the heir and expecting to have it given them on the spot or demanding a few hundred on account. Reasonable. Sensible. Acting for the man’s lawyer I suppose?”

  “Yes.”

  Holmes has been known to shade the truth whilst on a case, but with a partial copy of the will in his hands I thought that he was veracious. He must have approached the lawyer and obtained that copy, and been further given the office of inquirer in order to advance his own investigation.

  Mrs. Trelan nodded once. “Well, then. Yes, I know Irene. Nice girl, good girl, used to play with my own daughters.”

  “Were there other children in the family?”

  “Aye. A boy, seven years older than Irene. She adored him, but he always acted above himself, fancied fine clothes, fancy food, acting the gentleman, and living above his means. Got into trouble at it.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Benjamin.”

  “Did he have any friends?”

  “Yes, a boy named Melville something… Warner, that was it. Melville Warner. A nice lad, and it’s my opinion Ben led him astray. Ben had a temper, and the police kept an eye on him. The boys used to go to some low place and gamble. Someone accused them of cheating and there was a fight. Warner was badly hurt, never good for much after that, and died maybe three years later. Ben’s father found him a job serving in a tailors’ shop, and I will say he did well at it, but he weren’t happy. Irene said that he thought it beneath him.” She uttered a bark of laughter.

  “Silly lad. He stuck it awhile, then Melville started to fail and took to his bed. Next thing, I heard Ben were gone, never even came back for Melville’s funeral for all they were such great friends.”

  “How long ago would that have been?” I asked.

  Mrs. Trelan thought, counting on her fingers. “Twenty-five years ago now. Well, Irene was thirteen, so Ben would have been twenty.”

  “Tell me, Mrs. Trelan. At the time Ben left, would Irene have had any money, or could she have had access to anything valuable, perhaps?”

  The lady went off into another peal of laughter. “How did you know? Yes, she’d been loaned a gold bracelet for her thirteenth birthday. Just to wear for the day. It were her grandmother’s—old lady died five years before—and her father being a bit indulgent with her, he let her wear it. Next day when she were asked to return it, she said she must have lost it. They turned the house upside down but it were never found. Her mother were that angry. Poor little Irene, she got a beating for it, and was punished further by missing several meals, but it made no difference, bracelet were gone.”

  “Ah,” Holmes said softly. “How long after her birthday did Benjamin leave?”

  “I remember that. Her mother made Irene stay indoors for a week as punishment, and she came over to play with my girls as soon as she were allowed out. She said Ben had left four days ago and she did miss him. You think Ben took the bracelet?”

  “Hmmm,” Holmes said absently to himself. “He saw her beaten, punished for three days before he bolted—he knew what she’d done for him.” And to Mrs. Trelan. “No, I think knowing
he was leaving, she gave it to him that night to sell and have the money in case of need. He stayed three days to be sure no one suspected him.”

  She considered. “Aye, none of that’s unlikely. She idolized him, did Irene, and I will say he were always good to her while he lived at home. So, then, Mister Detective, who’s the dead man you’re talking about? Would that be Ben Jarvis?”

  “I think it likely.”

  “And where’s he been and what’s he been doing this past twenty-five years?”

  Amusement showed briefly on Holmes’s face. “For some years I think he was a valet named Melville Warner.” Mrs. Trelan stared. “Then, when his master died, he went out into the world to, as you said, wear fine clothes, eat fancy food, and act the gentleman. He was convincing and over the years he made money, a considerable sum. He may not have returned home to boast of his successes, but he never forgot the little sister who’d loved him for no more than himself, who’d taken a beating and gone hungry for him. And so he left almost all he had to her. After all, he couldn’t take it with him; it had to go to someone and it might as well be her.”

  Mrs. Trelan exploded. “Aye, that sounds like Ben Jarvis. Selfish, miserable coward that he were. Oh yes, he’d talk her into giving him the bracelet, see her beaten and hungry and think it were all right because if he made money, in the end he’d leave her a bit. If he’s this dead man you speak of, I hope he’s rotting in Hell. I hope he burns. When I think of the times she could have used a sovereign or two, even a few shillings. Oh, hanging’s too good for him.”

  “Will you tell us about Irene, Mrs. Trelan?” Holmes asked gently.

  “Aye, I will. You know that most in this street own the houses we live in?” We nodded. “Well, then. So did the Jarvises, because his family had been paying it off and they owned it by the time the grandfather died. But Jarvis fell ill the year after Ben ran out on them. Pneumonia it was, and he died. He left some money, not a lot mind, but some and Mrs. Jarvis she went out to work as soon as he were buried. Said Irene should get sufficient education that she didn’t have to be a servant and she kept her at school. By the time Irene were past sixteen, she’d a good job at her own school, sort of assistant teacher. Then her mother died and Irene sold the house, went to live in a room at the school, but she still came to visit me and my girls.”

  Her face twisted. “There’s some that have luck, and some that would have no luck if it weren’t for the bad kind. She met a man, said he loved her, and they married. Irene was going to have his baby, then one day he was gone like her brother. She found out that he’d taken all her money, and what’s more he already had a wife. She lost the baby and she were ill for weeks. School said they couldn’t keep her on, lost her reputation, see, pupils’ parents and the locals all knowing she weren’t rightly married.”

  “Yes, I do see,” I said when she glared at me. “It wasn’t right, but…”

  “No, it were all wrong. I had her come and stay with me a while. Girls had both married and I had the room. Once she were back on her feet she said she weren’t going to batten on me, she went for a job as kitchen-maid in a hotel. A couple of friends managed references and she got the job. She’s been there ever since. I see her when she has a day off; thin as a rail she is, overworked, and paid half what she’s worth. She’s been there seventeen years and there’s times I wonder how much longer she’ll last. Ben could have saved her any time, if he had the money. How much did he leave her anyway?”

  “Just under three hundred thousand pounds,” I told her. “And a pleasant two-suite house on the edge of Mayfair.”

  Mrs. Trelan’s mouth opened, shut, and opened again. “Three hundred thousand pounds—and a house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dear Lord,” she said blankly. “And he left here with nothing but what he sold that bracelet for. How did he make that much? Not honestly, I’ll be bound.”

  Holmes smiled at her. “We doubt it. How do you think Irene will react when she is told?”

  Mrs. Trelan fell silent, pondering for several minutes. At last she looked at us. “You say that he died? Was it just that?”

  “No, it appears to be a case of murder,” Holmes admitted.

  “Ah. And you know he made much of his money dishonestly?”

  “He left diaries confessing as much.”

  “Then you won’t persuade Irene to take a penny of it,” Mrs. Trelan said decisively. “Is there no way you can keep quiet how he made it?”

  Holmes spoke slowly. “If we can find how he died, it is possible that what her brother did to make his money need not be known.”

  “Good. Then you do that. Until you know the whole story you don’t go near Irene. You hold off the lawyer—although if I know lawyers he’ll be in no hurry, not while he can keep charging, he won’t be—and don’t tell the police where she is, neither. I’ve known the family all my life and Irene all of hers. If the police want to ask questions, let them come to me. I can swear she’s never known from the night he left to this day what became of Ben, and I’d put my hand on the Bible to do it.”

  She looked at us piteously. “Don’t tell her, not until you know everything, then if she doesn’t have to know Ben was—what he was—let her have her inheritance with a quiet mind. Please?”

  Holmes stood and took her hand in his. “We will do our best, Mrs. Trelan.”

  She was watching as we left her house, and I turned to Holmes. “How can we keep silent? The lawyer, didn’t he ask you to find her?”

  “He did, but he is not my client. I agreed to seek the beneficiary without prejudice, nor did I make him any promises. No, Watson, there are times when justice is more important, and I believe that this is one of those times. The lawyer, as Mrs. Trelan rightly says, may be in no hurry; it is the police who will be harder to put off. I must find the truth of this matter, and quickly. Are you with me?”

  “Of course,” I said. “What do we do?”

  “Good man. Well, first we shall seek out another lawyer. Whoever it was that dealt with Wimbledon in his incarnation as valet to a recluse.”

  “Ah, yes. You said he would have held that position in his friend’s name?”

  “So I did, and so I think.”

  And when once we found the lawyer’s office and heard him explain, I found my friend to be right.

  “Melville Warner, yes, he was valet for five years to my client, Mr. Gerald Fitzrather. Mr. Fitzrather died twenty years ago—why are you asking about him?”

  “We are not,” Holmes told Mr. Boyd. “It is Warner in whom we have an interest.”

  “Good. I could not imagine that anyone would come asking for my client, a reserved man who lived retired and had no heir. Most of his estate was left to various charities. What do you want to know of the valet, and why? What is your standing in this matter?”

  “I want to know his references, his length of service, if he received any bequest of your client, in short anything you can tell us of him.”

  Here Holmes then went into greater detail as to his official position, the desire of a brother lawyer to disburse an estate, the police involvement—which could become more overt if required—and other similar matters, including that of murder, and Mr. Boyd became genially cooperative.

  “Humph. Let me see, I have the file somewhere.” Boyd, a lean man of some sixty years, wearing spectacles of a type that proclaimed him to require them desperately, and clothing that could have been an illustration for what the well-dressed lawyer wears, burrowed into a stack of folders, emerged with one, blew the dust from it, opened it and peered at the page before him.

  5

  “Hmmm, yes. Melville Warner worked for my client for a month under five years. Because of that he received no bequest.”

  “Did he know that any bequest would be contingent upon his length of service?”

  Mr. Boyd stared. “Certainly not. I would never have dreamed of saying something to him upon that subject. It would have been most improper.”

  “What
I am trying to ascertain,” Holmes said patiently, “is if he could have learned of it, perhaps from another servant. There were other servants?”

  “Of course.” We waited in silence until he spoke again, reluctantly, as if imparting the wisdom of the ages. “Well, yes. There was a cook-housekeeper, her husband who acted as butler and general manservant about the house, a maid, and a gardener. Because Mr. Fitzrather lived in such a retired manner, only a valet was required in addition to these servants. Mr. Fitzrather did not entertain formally, but now and then an old friend might stay to dinner or come to luncheon.” He was now talking more freely.

  “Of the other servants, all had been with him over ten years, the cook-housekeeper and her husband more than twenty, the gardener was a son of Mr. Fitzrather’s previous gardener and had been there almost eleven years, while the maid was the butler’s niece and had been there fifteen years. Mr. Fizrather’s will gave a basic sum to any servant who had been in his employ for a minimum of five years and who was not under notice at the time of his death. This was increased by an amount for each further year they had been in service to him.” He stopped abruptly.

  “So, “Holmes said slowly. “Long-time servants generally know such things; might not they have known about this?”

  “It is possible.”

  “And if so, then they may have accidentally spoken of it within the valet’s hearing.”

  “It is possible,” the lawyer said again. I saw that he was aware the servants had known of their bequests, and agreed that they may well have told the false Warner, or spoken of it within earshot. He merely did not wish to confirm that.

  Holmes moved onto a different tack entirely. “How did Mr. Fitzrather die?”

  The lawyer stared. “Of old age; he was eighty-seven. A wonderful old man, still dressing every night for dinner, still on top of his business affairs.”

  “Old age is a state, not a condition,” Holmes said quietly. “What did the doctor say?”