by George Mann
I interviewed Mary’s senior dorm-mates individually, a process carried out with some delicacy, as I wished both to reassure them and to find out whether they had any more to add to this not-quite mystery. They did not.
Similar tact had to be employed with the servants. It would not do to act without evidence.
On Tuesday evening, to my surprise, Mary came to see me.
I showed her into my office, and waited for her to speak. She sniffed, blinked and said, “Please, Miss Hunter, don’t send me away.”
“Why would I do that, Miss Fraser?”
“Because of the trouble I’ve been.”
Aside from a complaint about her snoring, which could hardly be helped, Mary had been no trouble at all since moving beds. “The past is the past, Mary. And as I explained, there was no ghost. All is well.”
“So I can stay?”
“Of course you can. What makes you think otherwise?”
“The letter from Father.”
“What letter? When did he write to you?” I looked over all post before distributing it to the girls. I had seen no letter.
“Yesterday, miss.”
“Would you be willing to tell me what the letter said?”
“I… yes, miss. He said that seeing as how things were not working out here at the school, and how Mama’s health is getting worse, I should come home to him.”
“You live with your mother outside of term-time, yes?” Had Mrs Fraser gone through the process of a divorce from her unpleasant husband this arrangement would most likely have been overruled by the courts.
“Yes but… she is not well, and she’s getting worse. Her nerves… When Peter died it was horrible, and she never got over it.”
I quashed my unsatisfied curiosity at the circumstances of her little brother’s death. What mattered was the family’s current pain. “But you would still prefer to remain with her when you are not here, and not spend time with your father?”
“Miss, I would rather sleep in a ditch than enter that man’s house!”
I tried not to let my surprise at her passionate words show. “I can assure you it will not come to that.” But her desperate, if incomplete, account put a new light on the hoax that had disturbed my school.
* * *
I called the suspect to my office the next morning, having slept on the matter to ensure I had, as Holmes would say “all the data”. My suspect was Elizabeth Munton, a lanky girl from a large local family who had worked at the school for two years, reporting to the housekeeper. I had spoken briefly to her, along with all the other servants, when making my initial enquiries. At the time she had claimed to “not know anything about no ghostly prank” but had refused to meet my eyes, and the way she said “ghostly prank” implied she knew more than she was saying.
This time I tried a different tack. Having asked her to shut the door and sit down, I asked, “Munton, what are your usual duties?”
“Cleaning, laundry and whatever jobs Mrs Clews requires, Miss Hunter.”
“Including, on occasion, the distribution of the post to the girls, I believe?”
Munton squirmed in her chair.
“Did you insinuate a letter that did not arrive by the usual means into Monday’s post?”
“I…” the girl’s eyes darted round my office, looking for escape.
“Did you, Munton?”
Her hands fluttered up from her lap, and she sobbed once. “It wasn’t my idea, miss!”
“Then whose was it?”
“It came from the same man, I think, though Ma didn’t say. She just gave me the letter to bring into work, told me to get it to the Catholic girl, the nervy one.”
“What ‘same man’, Munton?”
“I don’t know his name, miss. He first called on Ma last month, and they spoke in the kitchen. I didn’t mean to overhear…”
“What did this man say?” Mr Connor had arrived in the vicinity last month.
“Something about a prank at the school, and how he needed help with it.”
“And why would your mother acquiesce to such a request? Did she know this man?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.” The girl’s face reddened. “But Ma needs money, what with Pa gone and another baby on the way.”
“And this man offered to pay if you carried out this ‘prank’?”
“Ma never said but… yes, he must’ve. We’ve had meat on the table twice a week since.”
“What precisely did you do, besides deliver the letter?”
“I got the sheet, and Jeb – my middle brother – he got the rope. I strung it up the night before the storms, whilst I was in there cleaning. Later on, he sneaked in below and tugged on the rope.”
“Twice?”
“Aye, ma’am. Twice.” From her face she knew how much trouble she was in. Why do people never consider the consequences of their actions?
“Did you also disrupt a study session in the library?”
“What study session, miss?”
“Never mind. The man who came to your house, did he speak to you?”
“No, just to Ma.”
“But you heard him speak? Did he have an accent, perhaps an Irish one?”
“No, miss, he was local, by his speech.”
“And his appearance: what colour was his hair?”
“His hair? Dark, though thin on top. Ma had me take his hat when he arrived. Please, what’ll happen to me?”
“I think you know what must happen to you now, Munton. I cannot have untrustworthy staff at my school.”
“Yes, Miss Hunter.” Though there were tears in her voice, I saw acceptance too.
“Kindly pack your things. I will not require you to work out your notice.”
Her shoulders sagged and she whispered, “As you will, Miss Hunter.”
“I would advise against telling any of the other staff why you must leave the school’s service.” Not that I minded if she did: knowing the mechanism behind the disruptive incidents might help restore calm. “Come back and see me before you leave.”
When she was gone I sat back, then leaned forward and reached for my pen. I had two letters to write.
The first would be references for Munton, along with a bankers’ draft for a week’s wages. Foolish though the girl had been, she had been obeying her still-more-foolish mother. Up until this incident, she had been a competent housemaid and, although she could not stay here, I would not sabotage her future.
The second letter was harder. No one enjoys admitting they are in the wrong.
* * *
“You came, then?” I tried not to sound too relieved, but the maiden aunts who so enjoy my meetings with Mr Connor were not even pretending to address themselves to their Darjeeling today. After last week’s show they watched us raptly, straining to hear the latest development in this low opera of emotions.
“I did. Please, Miss Hunter, sit down.”
I did so, feeling a sigh escape as I did.
“I will come straight out and say this, Mr Connor. I am heartily sorry for the way I treated you last week.”
“I accept your apology. You were applying that fine mind of yours to a problem without being in possession of the full facts.”
“Quite so, to my chagrin. Perhaps coincidences are more common than I care to admit. Certainly, they are more common than conspiracies.” I left it unsaid that I had wanted to think the worst of him rather than face the changes he might bring into my life.
Mr Connor nodded; graciously, I thought. I could imagine myself spending more time with this man. “And how is my cousin’s girl doing?”
“She is nervous and scared, but that is, sadly, normal for her. I am not sure she will ever find happiness and ease, but for my part I will do all I can to help her.”
“And for mine, I will ensure that her wretched brute of a father does not cause any more trouble.”
“He strikes me as a man who will go to great lengths to get what he wants.” And what he had wanted was his onl
y child; thanks to his wife’s faith, and her consequent refusal to agree to a divorce, there would be no other legitimate issue.
“Only if unchecked.” Mr Connor smiled. “I have a purpose here now: to watch over what remains of my family.”
“I am delighted to hear that.”
“It is not a purpose that will take all of my time, Miss Hunter. I might hope, when spring comes, to explore the byways of the local countryside, with a suitable guide.”
“That sounds like a pleasant diversion.”
“More pleasant than chasing ghosts.” I had given Mr Connor the gist of the affair in my letter.
“Now, you know there was no ghost, Mr Connor.”
“Indeed not. But that is not the same as saying there are no ghosts, is it? ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophies…’ as the Bard puts it.”
“Perhaps.” Having been both right and wrong in recent weeks, I could concede that much.
* * *
Mary fell ill the next week. A bout of brain-fever was not unexpected after her recent traumas. She took to her bed, now out of sight of the fateful window, her rest aided by strong medication prescribed by our matron.
I had yet to replace Munton, so when autumn rain gave way, in the space of an hour, to winter’s still and bitter cold, I took a spare blanket up to Mary myself. I found her dozing, rosary entwined in her fingers. As I unfolded the blanket over her she opened her eyes.
“Don’t worry, Mary,” I murmured, “just rest.”
“I dreamt Father came for me.”
“I can assure you that will not happen.”
Her gaze was febrile and bright. “Are you sure? After Peter died, he said such terrible things.”
“All untrue, I’m sure. Peter was your brother, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.” She looked past me, as though at something unseen. “He fell.”
Whilst I did not want to cause the girl further pain, curiosity still pricked me. “An accident, yes?”
“Yes.” Her gaze focused on me. “He fell from the attic window.”
No wonder she had connected the flapping sheet outside with her dead brother! “Oh Mary. It must have been awful.” I shivered; the cold had taken hold up here.
“It was.” Her face twisted into an odd, feverish smile. “But it’s all right. No one saw.”
As I opened my mouth to ask what she meant a sharp bang resounded through the dormitory. I jumped to my feet, heart pounding. The noise had come from the far end of the room. I looked to the source of the sound, then, suspicions confirmed, hurried towards it.
The window was wide open. Before fear could get the better of me I leant out and grabbed the latch. My glimpse of the world outside was pure normality: a bright winter’s afternoon, girls on the sports fields below, rooks in the elm trees.
When I tugged the window closed I half expected the catch to be broken, but it was not. Whoever last opened it must have failed to fasten it properly, leaving it to be caught by a stray gust of wind.
I walked back to Mary’s alcove to find her sound asleep, that same peculiar smile still on her face.
THE CASE OF THE PREVIOUS TENANT
Ian Edginton
Inspector Baynes of the Surrey Constabulary is something of an anomaly in that he appeared in only one Sherlock Holmes story, “The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge”, but he’s also the only police officer to have ever successfully matched wits with the great detective and come out on top. In fact, Holmes goes so far as to outright congratulate Baynes, remarking: “You will rise high in your profession. You have instinct and intuition.”
It’s something he’s never said to poor old Bradstreet, Gregson or Lestrade, despite their best efforts.
Baynes is described as being on the stout side with florid cheeks but possessing extraordinarily bright eyes hidden beneath the heavy creases of his solid, yeoman features. The intimation is that there’s a keen intellect at work behind that everyman exterior. Given that he’s also a provincial policeman, there’s the temptation to write him off as an almost comic aside, but that’s where you’d be wrong. He’s very much a precursor to Columbo, in that his appearance, methods and mannerisms often lead people to underestimate his abilities. Even Holmes himself is a little taken aback when Baynes spurns his offer of help and successfully solves the case in his own way.
I would have loved to have seen Baynes and Holmes cross paths in a few more stories, which is why I jumped at the chance to use him.
—Ian Edginton
“Well, Doctor, what is your diagnosis?”
“Of what?” I asked.
“Why me of course.” came the curt reply. “For a full thirty minutes now, you have been perusing me from behind the horizon of your newspaper.”
Before I could respond, he brandished an index finger in my direction. “Do not deny it. You may as well have been sending out a semaphore for all your interminable rustling.”
I sighed and patiently folded my newspaper. I knew too well from past experience how Sherlock Holmes railed against inactivity. I had often reassured him that it was merely a passing inconvenience to be endured. Much like his sour mood.
“Holmes, this is merely a fallow patch,” I replied. “You have been through them before and will no doubt do so again. In fact, it has only been… what? Two weeks since the conclusion of our last case?”
“Long enough for the ink to dry on your latest tawdry narrative.”
“Holmes!” I rose sharply to my feet and was about to slam down my copy of The Times to punctuate my displeasure when I thought better of it. There was enough petulant behaviour in the room already. “You are my dearest friend, but there are occasions, such as this, when I find your company difficult to endure.”
Holmes folded his arms and turned to face the window.
“Surely the origin of that must lie with your friend Stamford for introducing us in the first place.”
I snatched my overcoat from the stand and proceeded to the door. “I am going for a walk. Some time apart may benefit us both.”
Without turning, Holmes gave a faint, dismissive wave.
“Oh, and when you pass Inspector Baynes of the Surrey Constabulary on the stair please tell him to come straight in, there’s no need to knock.”
“Inspector Baynes?”
“Of the Surrey Constabulary, yes. You’ll recall his most erudite handling of the incident at Wisteria Lodge?”
“Certainly. But how do you know he’s here? I didn’t hear the bell.”
Holmes turned to face me, a dark silhouette backlit by the sharp, winter daylight.
“The good inspector is somewhat on the stout side, therefore his weight upon the stair causes it to creak with a different timbre should you or I or Mrs Hudson bring pressure to bear.” He crossed to the fireplace and selected a long-stemmed pipe from the rack on the mantel. “Also, he pauses on every fifth stair to catch his breath, suggesting he is in ill health, although nothing more serious than a head cold.”
I was readily aware of Holmes’s methods but even I was briefly confounded by this deduction.
“You saw him out of the window didn’t you? He was arriving as Mrs Hudson was leaving to visit her friend in Worthing, ergo no door bell?”
Holmes gave a flicker of a smile but I sensed something else behind it, a suggestion of discomfort. He studied the pipe as if puzzled by its presence. He placed it back in the rack and elected to take a cigarette instead. His hands were trembling. Holmes has often said it is the observation of trifles that are the most revealing.
“Holmes, are you quite alright?”
“Clearly I am not, or you would not be asking such a question.”
“Then what is it that troubles you? I am both your friend and physician, remember?”
He lit the cigarette and drew deeply upon it before slowly exhaling a roiling cloud of grey smoke. The tension that hung about him seemed to dissipate along with it.
“Sleep, Watson, sleep. It
and I have never been on the best of terms, but these past few nights my sleep has been sorely tested. I awake in the morning… exhausted.”
Before I could answer there was a knock at the door.
“Come in Inspector Baynes,” said Holmes. “The door is open. There is no need to stand on ceremony.”
“Ah, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson. A very good morning to you both!”
Baynes had changed little since we met the year before. A short, solidly built fellow with a slight puffiness to his features and a red bloom to his cheeks. His frame suggested a family heritage of stout yeoman stock, of honest toil working on the land. His eyes, however, were bright, keen and ever watchful.
It was during the case of Wisteria Lodge, of the murder of Aloysius Garcia and the uncovering of the vile Central American despot Don Juan Murillo – “the Tiger of San Pedro” – that his talents came to the fore. Eschewing Holmes’s offer of aid, he ploughed his own course, revealing both murderer and motive at the same time as my friend. I distinctly recall him praising Baynes’s exceptional abilities. “You will rise high in your profession,” Holmes had declared.
And now Baynes was here in Baker Street and, after sneezing explosively into his handkerchief, was clearly full of cold.
“Forgive me gentlemen. It sounds far worse than it feels. Although I shall endeavour to keep my distance for fear of spreading same.”
“Will you take a brandy?” I offered.
“Thank you, no, Doctor. This is but a sniffling trifle; it will work its own way clear in due course. I am not a great imbiber, and I fear a glass of spirits would dull my senses even more.”
“Then pray take seat,” replied Holmes. “It is the least we can offer.”
“That I will, Mr Holmes. Thank you.”
I took Baynes’s heavy overcoat and wide-brimmed felt hat – the same, I noted, that he had been wearing when we first met. He seated himself at the dining table and laid a large leather satchel before him. Holmes was clearly intrigued.
“Am I correct in assuming this is not a social call, Inspector?”
“I wish I could say otherwise Mr Holmes but no, it is not. It is more by way of a consultation.”
