A Biased Judgement Page 11

“It is certainly not my wish, Mr Holmes,” she replied. She would have said more but Daisy knocked on the door.

  “Beg your pardon, my Lady,” she said. “But Maurice - I mean Mr Stevens - said you needed this.”

  She came into the room and applied ointment to Lady Beatrice’s wrist. The lady refused any attempts to bandage the wound.

  “Thank you, Daisy,” she said, smiling. “You’re a very good nurse.”

  “Yes, my Lady,” Daisy said, gathering up the supplies. “Are you sure you are all right? I could fetch you some medicine if you’re in pain.”

  “Thank you, I shall do very well.”

  “I hope the injury will not impede your piano playing,” I said. “I have rarely heard anything more exquisite. You are a remarkably accomplished musician.”

  Suddenly the lady smiled and her entire countenance changed. Where she had seemed somewhat listless and aloof, she now became animated. “It is just a bruise, and not my first,” she said. “I am quite sure I shall have no difficulty playing the piano. I am very pleased that you enjoyed my performance, Mr Holmes. It is a rare thing for me to play for someone who has a knowledgeable ear.”

  I bade her goodnight and left her with Daisy to assist in her toilette. Then I joined Stevens in the hallway and asked him for a report of what had occurred.

  “He’s a brute, is Mr Wallace, sir, as I have told you. He is determined to marry Lady Beatrice and steal her fortune for himself. His attempts at love-making are crude, as you have witnessed this evening.”

  “Indeed so. Lady Beatrice is fortunate you were there to protect her.”

  “Her Ladyship has always been fair with me, sir, and to all us servants. It breaks my heart to think of her bound to such a lout as that young gentleman.”

  We stood at the end of the hallway and the sounds of the music below drifted up mingled with raucous laughter. Never has the sound of gaiety sounded more strained or inappropriate.

  “Before you go, Stevens,” I said. “One or two questions: the dead woman, Liz Derby’s room looked from the photographs as if it had been searched.”

  “Yes, Mr Holmes. Her Ladyship thought so too.”

  “Have you had any thoughts about what the dead woman might have been hiding?”

  “I have pondered that very questions, Mr Holmes. There is little enough privacy in a servant’s quarters. Like many of us, Derby had a box for her treasures, but there was nothing in it of any note. Lady Beatrice went through it most carefully.”

  “Ah, one other thing: how often did Derby go to London?”

  “She arranged with Miss Simms to take a full day off every Sunday. Her mother is ill, she said, and Derby needed to see to her.”

  “That seems very generous. Is not a half-day a week customary?”

  “Indeed it is sir, but Miss Simms said she had no choice in the matter and, well, it’s hard enough to get staff to stay here. Especially female staff. Miss Simms agreed and reduced Derby’s wages accordingly.”

  “Excellent. Thank you, Stevens. That will be all. Make sure you take care of that cut on your forehead.”

  “Yes, Sir. Daisy will see me to rights. I was anxious to see Lady Beatrice was tended. Is there anything you need before I go, sir?”

  “Thank you, Stevens,” I said. “I believe I have all I need.”

  I returned to my room and saw at once that it had been searched. It had been skilfully done, with everything returned almost exactly as I had left it. But there were small signs only my eye would be able to detect: two newspapers I had left on the dresser had been opened and shaken out; the origami figure I left folded on my valise had been moved; and the shilling I had left in my coat pocket had been taken. I was, I confess, vastly amused. That anyone would have the foolishness to think he or she could deceive me. Me!

  Happily, the steps I took to reveal any such intrusion worked exceedingly well. The organ bromine compound with which I coated my bag’s lock will cause an unmistakable purple discolouration of the spy’s fingers. The lock remained intact, and I am confident the false bottom of the valise is undetectable to all but the most acute observer. I know who the busybody is and I have no fears that he possesses the requisite intelligence for such a discovery. My journal and Lady Beatrice’s letter and the photographs remain secure.

  Since the rest of the party, other than Lady Beatrice, remained below playing cards, I took the opportunity to do some spying of my own.

  The family and guest bedrooms rooms are laid out thusly:

  Sir Christopher and his wife have adjoining bedrooms along the entire south wing. The bathroom on the southeast corner. The Summerville’s suite and the bathroom overlook their beloved rose garden. The bedrooms share a small and architecturally ill-advised Venetian-style balcony.

  Along the west is the Beechams’ chamber, next to which is Wallace Summerville’s. These overlook the stables.

  M. Perrot and Dr Watson occupy the rooms on the north wing overlooking the lawn.

  Finally, the east wing, overlooking the main drive, is occupied by Villiers, myself, and, finally, Lady Beatrice. As with the southern façade, the rooms on the east wing share an equally ill-considered balcony. I think I understand why Summerville junior wanted the room I occupy: The balcony with its array of ficus trees allows him to spy on the lady in her chamber with some measure of cover.

  All of the rooms surround the main staircase and the landing.

  I began my examination with my host.

  Sir Christopher’s room, though opulent and well ordered (by the servants rather than the man himself, I have no doubt), reveal an individual of no small vanity. His clothes are of the finest manufacture and his locked drawers contain a significant number of very expensive gemstones. I found no letters. Presumably he is too canny to hold on to anything that can compromise him. There are no secrets here; just evidence of a man who is highly self-indulgent and, I suspect, living considerably beyond his means.

  His gloves are, alas, intact and his shoes have narrow, pointed toes.

  His wife’s bedchamber is frilly and excessively decorated. She displays an unfortunate fondness for cats and these are embroidered onto every surface. Her correspondence is brief: ‘Thank you for inviting me; I’m afraid I must decline’ written over and over in a large rather childish hand. What strikes me is the frequency with which she refuses invitations. Is it her own choice or that of her husband’s, I wonder? From what Stevens and the inspector say, she seems to have been a gregarious creature before her wedding. If not exactly forbidden from participating in these various social events, perhaps fear of her husband’s behaviour dissuaded her from attending. I find myself torn between irritation and sympathy. Her clothes are of good quality but at least five years old, while her husband’s costume reflects the very height of fashion. Her gloves are old and well-worn with little suede still attached to the surface.

  I set aside my indignation on the lady’s behalf and moved on to the Beecham’s room. This proved to be as dull as the couple who inhabit it. They have no taste, no elegance. Their clothes, though clean and well maintained, are old and of poor quality. The man has only two suits in addition to the outfit he wears to dinner; his wife possesses a total of three dresses. These have all been let out at the waist in the past two or three weeks. I wondered if the husband has been told yet of the happy event Mrs Beecham is expecting.

  They, too, have no correspondence, but that is unsurprising. They have no family except themselves. His shoes are round-toed and have a slight heel. The ones he wears each evening are of a similar style. It seems to put him out of contention as a suspect. His wife, however, has shoes that are of a comparable size and style to the killer’s footprints. What lengths might a pregnant woman go to if sufficiently provoked? Yes, despite her milksop appearance, Mrs Beecham is a very credible suspect, I think.

  The next room I s
earched was Wallace Summerville’s. Unlike all the others, this was locked. Getting inside delayed me some fifteen seconds.

  Junior has made an attempt at defeating any prying eyes: there is a padlock on his suitcase and all his dresser drawers are locked. It hardly seems worth the effort: the suitcase contains nothing more exciting than his (overdrawn) cheque book; and the drawers reveal nothing more alarming than the sort of smutty pictures that go for a song in Soho. I found no correspondence. His shoes - worn and down at heel - are round-toed.

  Thus disappointed, I moved on to M Perrot’s room on the south side of the building.

  I moved hastily through this particular search. Perrot’s fondness for perfume permeates his clothing and the room stinks. His gloves are a very expensive tan leather. His shoes are a square toed size 9, slightly larger than the footprints outside Liz Derby’s room.

  One point of interest: his valise contained a hidden compartment. It was very well designed and I might have missed it were it not for the peculiar signs of wear around the binding. The compartment contained two things of interest: a pistol and a selection of letters. These last are in French and Italian; nothing in English.

  The Italian letters seem innocent enough on the surface. There are comments about the weather and various places in Rome. The first letter said, “Our customer would like to obtain a certain object. Since we release its acquisition may prove difficult, perhaps you might persuade the current owner to consider our terms?” The second letter contained the more sinister suggestion that a certain unnamed gentleman, identified only as “Caesar”, has proved difficult and Perrot’s services may be required at some point.

  Two things about these letters excite my interest. The first is that innocent documents do not need to be hidden. Yet here, in this monolingual house, this correspondence is kept hidden. Secondly, the signatory on both the Italian letters is Romano, a Florentine gentleman who was known to be a past associate of Hugo Oberstein. Thank goodness Herr Oberstein is still enjoying her Majesty’s hospitality thanks, primarily, to his activities in the matter of the Bruce-Partington plans. For all the apparent innocence of these letters, I made a note of the contents and shall pass the information on to Mycroft as soon as I return to the city.

  The third document was in schoolboy French and revealed at length the plans of the British government to address the situation in South Africa. Names, dates, locations: everything was revealed in horrifying detail. It was very evident that this letter was a continuation in a lengthy correspondence. The signature at the bottom of the letter made me seethe. I knew this bounder, this traitor. For a moment I was filled with incalculable rage. I am not, I think, a man much given to passion, but if that fellow were before me I would cheerfully have throttled him. It occurred to me that were circumstances just a little different, I too, might strangle someone in the heat of passion, just like Derby’s killer.

  There was not much time and I needed to act. For a moment I contemplated stealing this letter and sending it at once to Mycroft. However, I cannot risk letting the Perrot or his correspondents know that I have uncovered their secrets. Instead, I memorised the contents and then returned the letters to their hiding place.

  Feeling in need of a bath to rinse away the filthy perfume, I hurried along to the next room, that of Mr Edmund Villiers. A raucous sound filtered up the stairs and I surmised the family were coming to the end of their entertainment and would soon retire for the night. I hurried on.

  Villiers’ room is orderly and immaculate. The only gloves I could find are an unfortunate canary yellow leather.

  Like a schoolboy, all of Villiers’ property is inscribed with his initials in a woman’s hand; his mother’s, I suspect. Even his lilac coloured silk scarves have discreet ‘EStJV’s embroidered in the corner.

  His writing case is immaculate and expensive; his initials are embossed in the lower right corner of the calf leather cover. In the inside pocket there is a card that reads, “To Eddie, love of my life. From F.” The case is at least six months old and yet the card remains; ‘F’ is well-loved in turn then. I found a slight discolouration of the leather on the inside. Something, papers or a letter, had been here for a long time and only recently been removed. Though it is well stocked with expensive pale blue paper, stamps and notecards, there was no correspondence inside. That was a disappointment. There was also an unfinished and tear-stained letter addressed to ‘Francis’ which reads, “Why have you not replied to my telegram? You cannot be so cruel... Please, my dear, forgive me...” The letter was so badly stained with tears it was almost illegible. Still, I read enough to intrigue me.

  I had just finished examining Villiers shoes - size eight with pointed toes - when I heard the sound of footsteps coming up the staircase. I slipped back into my own room via the balcony and stood at my door, listening.

  Sir Christopher and his wife were bidding each other good night. Banal wishes for a restful night were exchanged, my host seeming out of sorts and his wife declaring herself to have a headache. From this I concluded there would be no marital bliss awaiting Sir Christopher this night. Unless, of course, he forced himself upon the unfortunate woman, an act, I fear, not beyond him.

  In any event he did not seem disposed to discuss the matter and I heard the door to his own room open and close a moment later.

  As the guests returned to their rooms and the house fell quiet I pondered my discoveries. While there is nothing to definitely incriminate anyone, I could at least move some to the bottom of my list of suspects.

  If my theory of motive is correct I can discount the servants. But what if I am wrong? It was a crime of passion, after all. That is all I can be sure of. But, then, the room was searched... Never mind. Start at the beginning. Consider the servants:

  Miss Simms, I have already eliminated and I am satisfied with my reasons for doing so.

  Daisy, though strong, has very small hands and I doubt her fingers could stretch around a neck as thick as Derby’s.

  The cook is nearly sixty years old; in good health, true, but hardly a match for a strong young woman half her age.

  That leaves the men.

  Now, Reynolds has the savagery and the strength to do the job. By all accounts, he has demonstrated his brutality in the past. But... he wears square toed shoes which are a size smaller than the killer’s. He might be my man, but I really don’t think it likely. Not for the first time I am struck by the vexing truth that killers are frequently good people driven to extremes by circumstances, while evil men manage to live blameless lives - at least as far as the courts are concerned. Ah, it is late. I should not wax philosophical at this sort of hour.

  Stevens, then: he has the strength and, I think, under the right circumstances I believe he could be quite deadly. To strike down another human being, particularly a woman, seems out of character, but if provoked... He wears a narrow shoe of the right size, he has the strength. My heart tells me he is innocent, but I fear that is more my wish than facts. I cannot discount him. At least, not until I can be sure of the motive.

  Lady Summerville I have already discounted since she lacks the strength to strangle a woman at least fifteen years her junior and in rude good health.

  Mr Beecham has the strength, but it seems unlikely. What motive could he have? There is nothing to suggest he ever knew Derby before he came here. He is happily married, financially secure. His shoes are a broader fit than the prints suggest. I believe him to be an unlikely candidate.

  Though it pains me to admit it, I do not think it likely that Wallace Summerville killed Liz Derby. There’s no doubt about his savagery, nor the certainty that he has secrets to hide. But how could he have arrived in this sleepy town from London without being spotted, and then return after the murder? Derby’s murder was a crime of passion rather than one that was planned.

  As to Lady Beatrice: the only one whose room I did not manage to search.
Perhaps tomorrow when she is occupied elsewhere I may get my chance. I think it unlikely that she would leave anything incriminating in her room if for no other reason than she must know it is likely to be searched by Seaton or Summerville. Of course, my eyes are sharper than theirs. It’s worth a look, anyway. She is another I cannot eliminate. Indeed, her demonstration at dinner tonight revealed a woman who would not shrink from any task, even murder, if provoked.

  Of the other likely suspects, I have no reason to dismiss Sir Christopher, Mrs Beecham, or Mr Villiers. Each demonstrates the resolute nature, physical strength, and passion that combine to make a murderer. Were he here, I have no doubt Watson would add ruthlessness to that list of homicidal traits, but it has been my experience that passion will suffice where the cause is deemed great enough. As for Perrot - that gentleman has given me cause for considerable interest. He is too tall, wears the wrong sized shoes, and is left handed: I believe he is not my killer. But he is more certainly worthy of observation for other reasons.

  September 20th, 1897

  I have lain upon my bed for hours but sleep continues to elude me. I cannot keep my mind from retracing all the aspects of this peculiar case. The cold, too, has kept me wakeful. Around midnight, I got up and put my coat on top of the thin blankets, but even then I lay awake.

  This case vexes me. Unlike most other murders I have studied where the motive becomes clear and, as a consequence, the killer becomes obvious; in this instance there is only one likely reason why the victim was murdered but, alas, that does not eliminate any of my suspects.

  Then there is the question of the killer’s wet footprints. It is most unfortunate that the weather intervened before I could conduct a proper search of the grounds. The rain continues to beat down and I must use my wits instead of my eyes.

  I can see the events unfolding. Derby leaving the house in the middle of the night to go to the pillar box. It is too cold to merely put a coat on over her nightgown and so she dresses. It is late and all the house seems asleep. So, yes, she gets dressed and she takes the path through the roses. It is dark so she takes her time.