“He’d have acted,” I said, thinking it through. “He could not have permitted it to continue.”
“What would he have done?”
“He’d have gone to the club committee, perhaps…. No, he’d have gone to his father’s friend,” I said, confident now. “But before that he’d have spoken to Wimbledon. He could not have demanded that Wimbledon leave London or anything so extreme, but probably he would have asked him to resign quietly, so there should be no scandal. He may then have told Nanton of his discovery and thus seen to it that Wimbledon would not be able to gain membership in another club in the city.”
“In other words, had James found out something that was greatly to our diarist’s discredit, he could have seen to it that never again could the man become a club member, and such information would inevitably get around,” Holmes concluded. “To be in trade is not the stigma that it was, and those with whom we spoke today are all of good families, but they are also businessman. What would have offended them is not that Wimbledon was in trade, but that he tricked them into accepting him as one of their own kind.”
I gasped. “Holmes, do you not see? Here is a motive for James’s murder. If he knew Wimbledon to be false, if he could expose him for what he really was, then Wimbledon had to act, to stop the lad’s mouth before he could be betrayed.”
My friend smiled at me. “I do see, and that may have been the motive. We are home, Watson, let us seek our dinner. In the morning we shall go to the lad’s home and also the place where James died and make our inquiries.”
Dinner was a pleasant meal during which Holmes discussed his latest monograph, a paper on aspects of criminals suffering congenital physical and medical conditions that predisposed them to crime. Since as a medical man I could contribute, I was able to offer some insights on brain tumors that Holmes appeared to value.
“Useful, Watson. I will talk further on that with Professor Jalgstein.” He pushed aside his now-empty plate. “I suggest that we go to our beds, for I wish to make an early start and it is some distance, even by express, to James’s estate and to that of his friend.”
We retired shortly thereafter, and I slept soundly until I was woken by Holmes’s call. I ate a hearty breakfast, expecting that we would be gone all day and there was no knowing if there would be a suitable place to eat. (I may say that in this I was wrong, since we were invited to lunch by the second family we saw, but more of that later.)
We took the train out of London and after an hour’s travel we alighted at a small station where we were able to hire an extremely ramshackle vehicle to convey us to our first destination. It was what the upper classes often term a cottage, but it was of four or five bedrooms, and well situated on around thirty acres, with outbuildings and a small coppice. There we found a lady, appearing to be in her late fifties, of the utmost respectability but also of a kind nature, who had cared for her cousin and was happy to hear that in Holmes’s opinion the boy may not have committed suicide.
“Come in.” She indicated seats in the parlor and we sat once she herself had done so. “I could never believe it, Mr. Holmes,” Miss Dimberly told us. “James’s was not that sort of nature. He was a happy boy, always joking and laughing, and if he had felt that he had no other choice, I do think he would have left some indication.”
“You inherited his estate. Did you find anything of the sort?”
Miss Dimberly was reluctant on that, but forced to admit that she had not. “Of course, while I had to sort through all his papers and I found nothing, it is possible… perhaps even likely… well, Mr. Holmes, I am not a young man, but could he not have placed such a paper where only a friend who knew him well might find it?”
Holmes looked at her. “That is a sensible thought. It is possible, and the more likely if whatever he wished to say were of a deeply personal or distressing nature. Did anyone make such a search?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Would you permit us to do so?”
She nodded firmly. “I would.” And with that she rose from her seat and ushered us through the main part of the house and into two charming rooms at the rear of the building that still retained an air of masculine occupation. These rooms had two doors: one to the outside, and a second that would let an occupant into the house proper.
“These were my cousin’s rooms when his father was alive. Having no need for them I left them as they were. Upon his father’s death, he moved into the main part of the house, but if friends stayed with him I am given to understand that he returned to these rooms and left them the main bedrooms.” She looked at us. “If there is anything to be found it may be here. I will leave you to your searching.” And with that comment she turned on her heel and we heard her steps fade down the passageway.
Holmes wasted no time but began at once to walk about the rooms. Books were neatly lined up on one shelf, mostly books such as would have belonged to a young boy, although here and there I saw works for a more mature mind. It was very much a boy’s domain, and I thought Barker to have been fortunate to inherit not only this, but also an income sufficient to maintain it and himself, if not in luxury, then in moderate comfort.
One by one I opened all the books, tapping gently on the spines, since as a lad I had sometimes hidden a paper within a book’s pages, and in one of Holmes’s cases too we had once found a vital clue in such a way. I found nothing this time and moved on to examine a line of carved wooden horses. They were done with skill but by an amateur I thought, perhaps someone who had been a friend of Barker’s, and I handled them with care, but could find nothing about them to suggest a hiding place. Nor was there anything to be found in the other ornaments—a set of hollow china dogs on the mantle-piece, and a container of wax spills.
Holmes was examining first the curtains, then the bedding on the large bed, followed by an examination of the cushions stacked to one side on a chair. “Give me a hand, Watson. I want to turn this mattress.” I assisted in the operation, but again there was nothing to be found. Holmes ran a hand up and down the thick, turned wooden staves that formed part of the bed-head; they were fine work, standing to a height of almost five feet—I had seen such items before and thought that originally the bed may have been of the enclosed type, but that the hangings and much of the frame had been removed in accordance with more modern custom.
My friend halted his explorations abruptly, and I saw his expression change. “You have found something, Holmes?”
“Perhaps,” he said cautiously. “Let me look closer.” I watched as his fingertips rubbed delicately over the polished wood. “Ah, yes, look at this, Watson.” He pressed on a string of beads carved into the stave, turned a part of the upright, and a section opened showing a cavity. I pressed forward eagerly and then shouted with laughter.
“A treasure, but not of any kind that would be useful to us.” I reached past him to lift out a small leather bag of a type with which I was familiar. I loosened the neck and poured a number of marbles into my hand, admiring their quality as I displayed them to my friend. “No wonder the boy hid them. Why, they may even have been his father’s. I have seen marbles of this type and they must be at least forty years old.” Holmes had turned away and was examining another part of the bed.
“What,” I said, chaffing him. “One bag of marbles is not enough?”
Holmes glanced at me. “Where there is one hide in such a place, Watson, there is often another that matches it. Ah, yes, and here it is.” His fingers teased out a second secret and the stave opposite also opened. From that my friend drew an envelope. I watched, almost holding my breath as he opened it. Was this to be the secret for which Barker may have died?
It was a letter, a single sheet, written in crosshatched lines by a feminine hand, possibly that of quite a young girl I thought, for the writing was somehow childish. I stood near enough to read it for myself while Holmes perused the lines. It was addressed to Ben Jarvis and ended with the signature, Irene. In its way it was a pathetic missive.
Dear Ben,
Melville Warner says that he can get this to you but that he is unlikely to live long enough to do so again, nor will he tell me your direction. I hope that you are well, that your life goes as you wished it to be and that you are accepted in Society, as you always desired. Our parents have forgiven me the loss of grandmother’s bracelet, but father is gravely ill and I fear he too may not live much longer. The doctor says that it is pneumonia and our mother despairs of his life. Please, Ben, father would wish to see you before he dies. Mother says that he will not leave a great deal but that she will go out to work, Madame Helene the milliner having offered to take her on since she and mother once worked together and are friends. Mother is adamant that I should remain at school and this is a means toward that. Dear Ben, I miss you so much, and I know our parents do too, please, if you are able, come home and see father before it is too late,
Your always loving sister, Irene.
I looked at the crossed lines where they were blurred here and there and knew the smudges for tearstains.
8
“The man was a blackguard,” I said angrily. “How could he have read such a letter and been unmoved?”
Holmes eyed me. “My dear Watson, I agree that it was regrettable, but there is another aspect to this. Barker had the letter in his possession. He can only have had it from Wimbledon, and do you not see that first line?”
I read it again and nodded. “She says that Melville Warner will get the letter to him but that Melville is dying.” I was confused. “But what of it? Barker would not have known that Jarvis had taken his friend’s name, nor even that Jarvis was Wimbledon.”
“No,” Holmes said. “But tell me, Watson, the letter was written some years before Barker befriended Wimbledon. Under what circumstances would you have such a letter in your possession?”
“If I were the lady’s brother.”
“You can think of no other reason why you might have it?” I shook my head. “Do you see then? Only the one for whom the letter was intended is likely to have it. But the person to whom it was sent is addressed both as ‘Ben’ and the writer’s brother, indicating he is not Wimbledon and the name is false. It is also clear from what is said that she and her family are no more than middle, and possibly lower middle class. Therefore Wimbledon, if he is the brother in question, cannot be a gentleman. And Barker had introduced him as such, had seen him made a member of his own club with Barker as his sponsor. If Wimbledon is not as he claimed, then Barker has colluded in duping his fellow members and friends. At first he would not believe it, and he would fear to tell anyone. What then would he do?”
“Confront Wimbledon,” I said at once. “Demand an explanation. Point out that while he knows his friend never speaks of his family and origins, in this case he must satisfy Barker else the boy will have no option but to approach either his godfather or the club committee.” I paused. “How could the boy have laid hands on the letter, Holmes? If Wimbledon kept it for three or four years, it must have been a treasured possession, the only link he had with the family he had discarded. How could it have been mislaid so that Barker found it and knew with complete certainty it was a letter to Wimbledon?”
“Such things happen. Wimbledon may have had it in an inner pocket and lost it at Barker’s home at such a time and in such a way it could belong to no other. The problem for Wimbledon was that an honest lad found it; one who could not be bribed or threatened to overlook the implications. Given that his whole way of life, everything he’d become and had ever wished to be now depended on Barker’s silence, you can see what step he would have taken next.”
I could.
“How?” I asked. “How could he have murdered the boy?”
Holmes looked at me. “If you are asking how he could bring himself to kill a friend who trusted him, Watson, I do not know, save that a man of his type would do whatever he had to do to maintain his position. He proved that in the past. If it is the mechanics of the killing you question, they are simple. He had only to ask to examine the gun, turn quickly, thrust it under the lad’s chin and pull the triggers. While the body was still malleable, he could fold the hands about the shotgun stock and even if they fell away, their position would appear natural. Nor is it likely that those who found him would look at the position of the body too closely.”
I imagined the scene and could only agree. “Yet Wimbledon would be covered in blood,” I argued. “Surely he would present an appearance that would raise alarm in any who saw him.”
“Not if he had sought out Barker for the sole purpose of killing him,” Holmes replied. “He had only to leave an overcoat to one side and don it again once the deed was done. That would hide the signs, and he could leave the area without anyone raising an alarm.”
From the doorway came a small, polite cough and we turned. Miss Dimberly stood there, a hand to her throat. “Forgive me, gentlemen. I came to say that I am about to leave to shop in the village and did not wish to interrupt you while you were talking. Did I hear you correctly, Mr. Holmes? You have found evidence that my cousin may have been murdered?”
In silence Holmes proffered the letter, which she took and read. Once she finished she looked up. “Poor girl, she was in grave trouble and distress. Who was she?” Holmes explained our suspicions and the lady sighed. “Mr. Wimbledon seems to have been a scoundrel. He persuaded the child to steal for him, he saw her punished and did nothing but accept the fruits of her love for him, and then abandoned not only his sister but also his parents. He lied and cheated his way into my cousin’s friendship, and then murdered him that James might not reveal the man for what he was.”
“That is true,” I said. “Such men care nothing for honor, only for their own desires. Wimbledon wanted to live in luxury and be accepted as a gentleman.”
Miss Dimberly drew herself up. “To be a gentleman is not merely to appear as one to others, it is to be honorable, honest and decent, trustworthy and a person on whom his friends can always reply. James was a gentleman, this Wimbledon was not. What can be done about him?”
Holmes stood considering while we waited. At length he spoke. “If it is possible for us to find sufficient evidence to show that Barker died neither by suicide nor accident, then it may be that the coroner would be prepared to reopen the case. What was his verdict at the time?”
Miss Dimberly made a sound I can only describe as a snort. “‘Accident,’ he said, although all believed it suicide, and he thought he was being considerate to the family. I believed neither possibility and said so, but who listens to a middle-aged spinster?”
“I do,” I told her. “How well did you know your cousin?”
“Very well. His mother was my dear friend and aunt, and before she died I spent much time here. This estate was the property of our family, not of James’s father. His mother inherited it from her mother by entail in the female line. I know such is unusual, but my great-grandmother was—ah—odd on the subject of women having something that was their own. That is why it came to me upon James’s death.”
I opened my mouth to say jocularly that I was surprised that the coroner had not considered that, received a steely look from my friend, and remained silent instead.
“So this estate is a part of the trust that provides a moderate income?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“So you now have the trust income as well?”
“I do, since my cousin died without being wed, and without issue.”
“Who then will inherit once you are gone?”
Miss Dimberly looked surprised. “Do you know, Mr. Holmes, I have no idea. I never expected to inherit and I have given no thought to who might come after me. When James died and I inherited I had money of my own from my father, since I was his only child, and I was not in want. But I love this place, and the additional monies do enable me to live a pleasant, comfortable existence.”
“I recommend that you discover your heir,” Holmes said, and upon receiving an assurance that she would,
he turned back to the earlier conversation. “What do you know of the friends with whom Barker was staying when he was found dead?”
“They are a county family named Finlay, related to the Earl of Wintringham. Their estate is called Farlea and is of immeasurably greater size that this. The elder son was an old friend of James’s since they are of an age and live only two miles away. The younger son is delicate and has a tutor. The sister is a year younger than James and her elder brother, but all three were friends, and it was not uncommon for her to join them if they were shooting. When they found that James had not returned for luncheon, it was typical of Emma to go looking for him. I believe they thought only that he had forgotten the time, and she offered to remind him that they were about to dine.”
“Has she since married?” I asked abruptly. The picture of what she must have seen was clear in my mind. If she and the lad had been good friends, to come upon—that—unexpectedly could have been so horrifying as to unseat her reason. Miss Dimberly eyed me kindly.
“Yes, Doctor, she has. She married almost eighteen years ago now, a young man who knew James as well. If it is in your mind that she was fond of my cousin in that way, I can reassure you. She loved him as a brother, but it was to Laurence that she turned when James was found dead. She has three children and is happy, although as I, she has never believed that my cousin killed himself. If you go to Farlea you will find her there on a visit, along with her husband and children.”
I took out my pocket watch and glanced at the time. We had arrived at a little after eight in the morning, and it was now almost eleven. We could be at Farlea in no more than twenty minutes if we departed now. Holmes had been watching me and spoke to Miss Dimberly.
“You know the Finlays. Would you be prepared to give me a card introducing us?”
“I would. One moment,” she trotted away, to return after a brief interval with both her card, inscribed “this is to introduce Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,” and a sealed envelope. “Give the card to their butler, and the envelope to whichever member of the family meets you after that.”
Sherlock Holmes Page 24
