A Biased Judgement Read online

  “Take comfort in the knowledge that she is beyond all pain and suffering now, lad,” Watson said, gently.

  Watson and I returned to the manor and I informed Sir Christopher of Stevens’ situation. “Confound the boy,” he roared. Then, seeing Watson’s expression added, “I suppose it cannot be helped. Well, we shall be without conveyance until he returns. Can’t have the housemaids drive us into town, now can I?”

  Lady Summerville burst into tears when I told her of the death of old Mrs Stevens.

  “Oh Alice,” she cried. “She was with me for years, Mr Holmes, before she became unwell. Those were such happy days.” She looked up at me with reddened eyes. “Deaths come in threes, they say...”

  “I do not think you can count Mrs Stevens in this instance,” Watson said, holding her hand and speaking with infinite gentleness. “The woman was old and she has not worked here for quite some time, I believe.”

  “But she’s someone I know,” she insisted. She began to sob.

  In the end Watson had to give her a powder to calm her. Lady Beatrice, dry-eyed but, I think, upset, led her aunt upstairs to lie down.

  This evening before dinner Watson and I took advantage of a break in the weather and went for a brief walk in the grounds of the manor. It was warmer outside than it was in the house. The gardens may not be large, but they are well maintained. Not for the first time, I marvelled that not only is Lady Summerville is a keen gardener, but that her husband apparently shares her enjoyment. I would not have expected Sir Christopher to have the temperament for so wholesome, not to mention so invigorating a pursuit, but it is these little inconsistencies that enrich our lives.

  At least here in the fresh air (spoiled, Watson said, by my “infernal cigarettes”) we could discuss the case without fear of being overheard.

  “You mean that butler went through your things? What a bounder!” Watson said.

  I laughed. “You should have seen him at breakfast trying to hide his purple fingers.”

  “Serve him right.”

  “It is a nice household where private letters are read and one’s belongings are searched and stolen.” I bent down to inhale the scent of one of the last pink roses then, standing up and stretching my back I said, “What did Davenport tell you?”

  Watson referred to his notebook. “He seems a very genteel, very respectable gentleman, Holmes. His inn in Pimlico does good business and the man himself is well respected and liked in the area.

  “He tells me that initially all the servants were happy when Lady Winifred Jacoby, as she was, announced she was to be married. Sir Christopher seemed an honourable man. Then.”

  “Ah. And when did things change?”

  “Within a day or two of the wedding. Sir Christopher summoned Davenport to the library and told him he had discovered some irregularities in the finances of the household. Though the charge was patently false he was dismissed at once.

  “The staff were very distressed. They’d worked together for a long time. Davenport and Miss Simms were to be married. But it was done.”

  “And he has he maintained contact with any of the staff here since he was sacked?”

  “He still sees Miss Simms once a month when she has her weekend off. They meet in Southampton. He still wants to marry her but she’s afraid to make so great a change. She’s been in service all her life and I doubt she’s ever even been inside an inn.”

  “So can he tell us anything about the inhabitants?”

  “Nothing we do not already know or haven’t surmised. One thing is certain: Rillington Manor was a happy house before the Summervilles arrived. Oh, he says Lady Beatrice was ‘always a handful’ but as straight and true as the queen’s own guard.”

  We walked down to the gate and then slowly ambled back again towards the house. I said, “What did you learn of Derby’s background in London?”

  “The usual story: a founding, lived on the streets from a young age. Eventually was taken into service by a Jewish family in Golders Green by the name of...” He peered at his notes. “Yes, the Zeiss family. She was with them four years then almost overnight the entire family was wiped out with typhus.”

  “Four years?” I said. “Well, she had not learned her wicked ways yet, I suppose.”

  “By all accounts she was quite happy there. The Irregulars reported she was treated as one of the family. But it all changed after their deaths.”

  “She found another position?”

  “Yes, quite quickly. A banker by the name of Longly took her on. She was there six months. Then followed her usual pattern.”

  “Ah...” I stopped walking and stared at nothing in particular for several minutes. Watson remained silent, letting me think.

  “Where has she been living?” I said.

  “A house in Brixton, Holmes. The Irregulars got it before Lestrade. I, ah, didn’t mention it to him and don’t you tell him either. He dropped everything to look into this case.”

  I waved a languid hand. “I have nothing but appreciation for the good inspector, Watson. Never fear.”

  The rain started again and we hurried back to the manor. Before we went inside I said, “I should like to take a look at the place Miss Derby called home. Have the police been there yet?”

  “No, not yet. Strictly speaking, it’s not Lestrade’s case, after all. You shall have an untouched area to work in.” With some reluctance he added, “I, uh, suppose you want to leave tonight?”

  “I should like nothing more, but I do not think it is wise to leave this place unattended overnight, not with a killer still at large.”

  “Well, I can keep watch.”

  I considered that idea. If I travel to the city this evening, Watson can surely keep watch here. I could accomplish my task overnight and return on the morning train.

  On the other hand, Watson is obviously exhausted and though I do not doubt that he would spend the night in a chair, I am not convinced it is the best option. As tired as he is, he might well fall asleep. Besides, a close scrutiny of Derby’s house in the dark would not be efficient. This case has already been compromised by my inability to properly view the scene.

  “You are done in, my dear Watson. You should sleep in a bed, even if it is such a bed as this wretched place affords.

  “No, let us spend the night and travel to London in the morning.”

  “You mean me to come with you, then?”

  “Of course, your assistance would be invaluable. We shall only be gone a few hours and will be back here before dark. No, I think we can risk it.”

  September 22nd, 1897

  Yesterday morning Watson and I left the manor to return to London. So much has happened that this is my first chance to write up these notes.

  I spoke with Inspector Greer before I left and told him of our plans. “If all goes well, I shall have answers for you tonight; by tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  On the train I fell into a brown study and Watson had to speak my name three times before I realised he was speaking to me.

  “I beg your pardon, my dear fellow, I said. “You were saying?”

  “I was asking if you had any fixed plan in mind. Did you want to go directly to Brixton or would you prefer to start at Scotland Yard?”

  “Oh, Brixton, certainly. I sent word last night to Lestrade to ask him to meet us there.” I fell silent once more. Watson wasn’t having it however.

  “Come, Holmes, these are dark thoughts which occupy your mind. What is it you fear?”

  I released a long breath, lit a pipe and then said, “I begin to have second thoughts about leaving that house unprotected, Watson. There is violence and death there. It would take very little to unleash it.”

  “Come, Holmes, I am sure you worry unnecessarily. You said yourself, we’ll be back by nightfall. What can possibly h
appen in just a few hours?”

  “I do not know... I think I made an error in bringing you with me, Watson. If you had stayed there you might have kept an eye on things and I confess I would be easier in my mind...” I puffed disconsolately at my pipe before adding. “But the task ahead of us may require considerable deductive reasoning and I am forced to admit I find my abilities greatly enhanced by your presence, old man.”

  “Thank you, Holmes. I am always glad to be of help, as you know. But if this was a crime committed in passion and without premeditation, surely it is unlikely to happen again. What is it you fear?”

  “Lady Beatrice,” I said.

  “Did you say Lady Beatrice? But for goodness sake, why?”

  “Are you familiar with the properties of gunpowder, Watson? On their own, sulphur and charcoal and saltpetre are not dangerous, but when you combine them and then expose them to a flame they become deadly. That is what we have left behind us, Watson: a house full of gunpowder.”

  He stared at me in horror. Then, trying to lift my spirits said with an attempted laugh, “I cannot see that young Lady as sulphur, Holmes!”

  “No, Watson, she’s not. She’s the flame.”

  For several seconds he said nothing, then, aghast, “You cannot mean she is the killer. Why, she’s a girl. Taller than most, perhaps, and rather unfashionably athletic in her structure, but to imagine her in a life and death struggle...”

  “What? Oh, Watson!” I slapped my hands together as all the pieces suddenly slid from their disparate places and slotted into a clear and startling picture. “Oh I am a fool,’ I cried. ‘Watson, I am a dolt.”

  ‘What, Holmes? What is it?’

  ‘Oh if it is so... if it can only be so! On the face of it, it seems improbable and yet... why not?’ And I laughed long and loud.

  11

  Liz Derby’s house is an unappealing building on the Brixton Road, a mere stone’s throw from the place where, seventeen years ago, I conducted my investigation of the Drebber-Stangerson case, or, as Watson would have it, A Study in Scarlet.

  Lestrade met us at the door and let us in.

  “Thank you for your assistance, Inspector,” I said. “Which flat is the victim’s?”

  “None, Mr Holmes,” he replied. “She owned the building.”

  “Good gracious!” Watson said. “Working as a servant yet wealthy enough to buy a three-story house? Astonishing!”

  “She did not accrue her assets from scrubbing floors, Watson,” I observed. “Or rather, not directly.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot stay, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said. “I have other cases that require my attention and strictly speaking this one’s not my concern, since the murder occurred in Bitterne and the local police are handling it. Still, if you would like to stop by the Yard around three o’clock there are a couple of other matters that I would like to discuss with you.”

  “An excellent notion, Inspector,” I said. “We shall be glad to meet with you. Though perhaps you would rather join Watson and me for a late luncheon? Say, at the Rose and Crown?”

  “That would be splendid, Mr Holmes. I shall see you then. Doctor.” And with a touch to his hat he set off and left me and Watson to get down to business.

  The house, despite its outer appearance, is clean, tidy and well-ordered within. The hallway was bright enough, despite the weather, thanks to the fanlight over the door. On the mat there was a large envelope addressed to ‘Miss Eliza Derby.’

  “This is what she posted just minutes before her death, Watson,” I said, as I examined it.

  I tore open the envelope and there, sure enough, was a love letter. The contents were so florid as to make even me blush. Watson took the pages from me with a shaking hand.

  “Good God, Holmes,” he cried. “I’ve never seen such filth...”

  “The correspondents obviously do not share your opinion, my friend. Indeed, though I am hardly an expert, this seems like the product of a genuine, if, ah, passionate love affair. Certainly motive enough, is it not, for murder?”

  “Unquestionably. But I am all astonishment. I really never suspected...”

  “Which is why blackmail is so effective a weapon,” I said. “Come, let us see if we can uncover this odious woman’s secrets.”

  We followed the hallway into a large, comfortable living room. There were no books or newspapers, no musical instruments or any other form of amusement. The furniture was sturdy but otherwise uninteresting.

  The only oddity was a collection of dolls, hideous things about eighteen inches high, with sinister porcelain faces and stuffed bodies. I pulled my jack-knife from my pocket and ripped open the back of one. It contained nothing but straw.

  “You surely don’t think Derby hid those stolen papers in a doll, Holmes?”

  “Not papers, but perhaps a key.”

  “A key? Whatever for?” He was systematically going through every drawer and every cupboard. One of the things that impresses me about Watson is I seldom have to give him direction. Another virtue he refuses to acknowledge in his writing. He’d rather make me appear the all-knowing hero. I’ve pointed out that as a result he sometimes makes himself seem a bit of a dolt but he laughs it off. “Poetic license, Holmes,” he says. Such twaddle.

  As we worked I said, “If the dead woman has amassed a collection of letters and photographs she’s hardly going to leave them in plain sight. No, she’ll have secreted them away. My first thought was she might have a security box in a bank...” I continued to examine the line of grotesque dolls as I spoke.

  “Yes?” Watson urged. “I’d have thought she’d want to keep them close at hand. Holmes?”

  “A key, Watson!” I exclaimed, retrieving the slender iron object from inside the head of a grotesque figurine that seemed to represent a harlot. A horrifying thing in a child’s toy.

  I flung down the doll and examined the object it hid.

  There is no standard size for safety deposit boxes or their locks; each bank is unique. However, this was a large bridgeward key most commonly used for deadlocks. As I studied it I remembered Watson was waiting for my reply. I said, “What were you saying? Oh, the bank... Well, given her long absences she might have thought her treasures safer there. Still, you are right: blackmailers like to keep their stolen treasures as close to hand as possible. This key... Look at it, Watson.”

  “Heavy,” he said. “And quite ornate. It would be hard to pick the lock that this key opens, I think.”

  “I think you’re right, my dear fellow. And I think that was rather the point. Now, let us see if we can find that very lock.”

  I looked around the room, seeing the traces of Derby’s living. She was not a careful housekeeper and the tracks of her footsteps could be clearly seen. There was nothing in this room to which she repeatedly returned, however. What did she do with herself here, I wondered. How can anyone live with things to read or music to hear? This woman seemed to have no interests at all other than her collection of revolting dolls.

  “I’ll start in the kitchen, Holmes,” Watson said.

  “Thank you, Watson; that would be excellent. This woman has undoubtedly accumulated a significant number of treasures so we are looking for a large trunk or a cupboard. Be systematic and precise. If you find any anomalies, do not touch them yourself but fetch me at once. Be careful to look behind things; if there is a door, it may well be concealed behind a picture or some such. I shall start upstairs and work my way down.”

  For the next three hours we examined every inch of the building. I climbed up into the attic, even though I knew it was highly unlikely: scaling an unsteady ladder with any regularity would not have been practical. On the other hand, I would not be easy in my mind if I did not let the evidence rule it out. Making assumptions with no hard facts is always an error.

  I examined every inch of t
he three bedrooms. Two of the rooms were idle and there was no sign they had been used in recent memory. The third was obviously that of the dead woman. There were clothes in the wardrobe; a series of exceptionally ugly straw hats on the shelf; and a box of cheap and gaudy jewellery. I had, I confess, held high hopes for this room.

  The dingy and under-used bathroom revealed nothing, nor did any of the cupboards or the hallway.

  Watson joined me in the living room and shook his head.

  “It is here somewhere, Watson. I’d stake my reputation on it,” I said.

  “I’ve combed every inch of the ground floor, Holmes. I’ve moved pictures, even dug through the food in the pantry. Nothing.”

  “Damnation!” I exclaimed. “I will not be bested by this small-minded, malicious guttersnipe.”

  “Holmes,” Watson said in his most soothing manner. “You’ll find it. Take a breath. Perhaps take a walk in the back yard. It is small to be sure, but it’s stopped raining for the moment. Do go, it may help you clear your head.”

  “Yes. Yes, that is a sound idea. Perhaps you would be so good as to go through the bedrooms again. I may have missed something.’

  “You, Holmes? Surely not!” he teased.

  I smiled, recovering my humour. “You know far more than I about the habits of women, Watson. It is possible there was some anomaly that I could not detect. But I shall go outside for a few moments and gather my thoughts. What time is it?”

  “Half past one.”

  “Well, if need be, we can come back after our meeting with Lestrade. All the same, I am loath to stay away from the manor for too long.”

  The rain had stopped for the moment, as Watson observed, and a fragile sun was trying to brighten the day. I wandered around the muddy and neglected yard for some minutes, thinking. At last I stopped and looked up at the building. I counted the windows: there were four which belonged to the two back bedrooms and the kitchen. The third bedroom, bathroom and living room were all at the front of the house.