A Biased Judgement Page 19

  “I know, Mycroft,” I said. “Believe me, I know.”

  “Shouldn’t she be warned?” Watson asked. From the look in his eyes I could see that he’d single-handedly defend the lady against all comers if needed.

  “Not yet,” Mycroft said. “There is the smallest margin of doubt here; a miniscule possibility that our conclusions are incorrect. We need to be sure... I shall alert all the necessary people, of course, but best not alarm the queen unnecessarily.”

  16

  October 29th, 1897

  I have spent the past week working my way through the more extravagant gambling places in the city. I lost a small amount but won two thousand pounds. Watson is somewhat peeved that I would not let him come with me. No doubt his knowledge about various gambling practices would prove useful, but I dare not subject him to that vice again. Not after last time.

  My indolent queries after a fellow going by the name of Winters were met with anger by two gentlemen with whom I played a few hands of poker. “We’d like to find him, and all,” said a certain Admiral, his face flushed as red as his tunic. “Scoundrel owes me a small fortune.”

  “You too?” I said sympathetically. “What is the world coming to when a gentleman will not pay his debts?”

  “No gentleman at all,” said another. “A puffed-up pipsqueak. He pretends to airs but his suit is two years old.”

  “I am very anxious to have him settle his accounts,” said I. “Can either of you gentlemen suggest where I may find him? You can be assured, I shall be happy to deliver him to you too.”

  “Not been seen for six weeks or more,” said the fellow, a banker by the name of Carstairs. “And I have it on good authority he’s being sought by every club in the city. My guess is he’s hopped it.”

  “Hopped it?”

  “Canada,” said the Admiral. “If you can believe a word out of his lying mouth. Said he had business deals in Montreal and Toronto.”

  Armed with this information I approached the shipping lines, but no ‘Winters’ is on any of the passenger lists for Canada. Given his circumstances, if he has, indeed, left the country, I assume he’s traveling under a false name. Unless Winters is also a false name, which I rather suspect to be the case.

  In other news, I have received a number of gifts - bottles of wine, a rather nice set of diamond cufflinks, and some other trinkets - with cards that say only, “Thank you”. None of them is signed but it is obvious they come from Liz Derby’s former victims.

  November 8th, 1897

  Poor Watson received a telegram yesterday evening saying his brother is extremely ill. After a wretched night and a hurried breakfast, I saw him off at King’s Cross on the train for Edinburgh.

  I confess I felt very sorry to see him go. I would have gone with him, of course. I know he would have been glad of my company, but this business of a possible attempt against the queen requires all my attention. Still, I dithered, a state I dislike in the extreme.

  “Perhaps I should come with you, Watson,” I said. “Just long enough to see you safely home and I can return in the morning.”

  “That’s nonsense, old man,” he said. “You really need to keep an eye on things here. Don’t fret; I shall probably sleep on the train. Promise me you will look after yourself, Holmes. I really wish you’d ask Mycroft to get some guards for your protection.”

  “You need not be concerned, my dear Watson,” I said. “I shall manage very well, I am sure. My trusty Tranter revolver shall have to substitute for your presence.

  “I hope you have a safe journey and find your brother much improved upon your arrival. Goodbye, my dear chap, goodbye.”

  With some misgivings I stood on the platform and watched the train pull out of the station. To be entirely frank, part of me was relieved to have a sound excuse for remaining in the city. Truth be told, I’d rather face a pair of brutes in a dark alley than spend an hour with Watson’s pious family. The poor chap always returns from Scotland in a sour temper which, I am surprised to report, does not improve when I attribute his ill humour to a surfeit of haggis. “Not funny, Holmes,” he says. Then I suggest he was struck by a wayward caber or fell into a loch... Eventually he brightens. He’s generally of a cheerful disposition (which, Lord knows, I test to the maximum on occasion), and our little ritual helps set him to rights. I like to think so, anyway. I really could knock the blocks of all his clan. It’s outrageous the way they treat him. As if living in London was some form of treason. Ridiculous! That said, if he loses his brother he shall be inconsolable and I am ill equipped for lending comfort.

  This evening after yet another fruitless day searching for the elusive Mr Winters, I decided to attend a concert at the Royal Italian Opera in Covent Garden. The music was delightful, but the real pleasure was when a young gentleman at the bar asked me for a light for his cigarette.

  I was vastly entertained to realise the ‘young man’ was, in fact, Lady Beatrice. Indeed, my mirth quite overshadowed the concert (a banal offering of the most insipid Caroline concertos.)

  The Lady has invited me to dinner tomorrow and I have accepted. The opportunity to break the boredom is most welcome. Besides, I am curious to hear the news about the peculiar inhabitants of Rillington Manor.

  November 9th, 1897

  Precisely at eight o’clock this evening, I arrived at Lady Beatrice’s home in the City and was surprised to see the door opened by young Stevens. Since the death of his mother he has nothing now to keep him in Southampton. A couple of months ago he applied to the Metropolitan Police and is waiting to learn his fate.

  “I am sure you will do very well, Stevens,” I said. “I only fear the duties of a police constable may be too far beneath your abilities.”

  “I don’t mind, Mr Holmes,” he said. “As long as I work hard I can make my way up the ranks.”

  “And how do you come to be here, in Lady Beatrice’s home?”

  “Her Ladyship was kind enough to give me a job while I’m waiting to hear back. The work here is light enough; I drive the carriage and help out a bit, but to be honest, Lady Beatrice doesn’t really need me. She just gave me the job out of kindness. She’d do well enough without me.”

  He’d have said more, I warrant, but the Lady herself joined us in the hallway.

  “You are very punctual, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I see you and Stevens have been renewing your acquaintance.”

  “We have indeed,” said I. “It is rare for me to see again people I have met on a case. I was greatly surprised to see Stevens ensconced so happily in London.”

  “He is here temporarily,” said the Lady. “An engagement that suits both of us. But we should not linger in the hallway. Come,” and she led me into the dining room.

  The Lady sets an excellent table and, more to the point, is a highly engaging conversationalist; something I would not have guessed from her dull appearance at Rillington Manor.

  For some time we discussed music. Her knowledge on the subject is as broad as it is deep. “I hope,” I said. “That you will honour me with a performance on the pianoforte this evening.”

  “I would be delighted,” she said.

  “Ah, it is a pleasure to discuss music with someone whose knowledge is equal to my own,” I said.

  She said, “Doctor Watson does not share your taste?”

  “I’m afraid not. The good doctor prefers less lofty entertainment. Ah, it is a great pity he did not get to hear you play in Rillington Manor. You might have converted him to the joy of Beethoven, at least.”

  “That was a dreadful evening,” the Lady replied. “Isn’t it strange how some houses seem to attract bad luck or unhappiness? Or is that too romantic a notion for your rational mind, Mr Holmes?”

  She smiled as she spoke and I realised I was being very gently teased. I laughed loudly.

  “Ha!” I said. “Well,
some houses do seem particularly unhappy. Baskerville Hall, for instance, over the centuries seems to have brought nothing but misery to its inhabitants. As for Rillington Manor, a great deal of the misery there must rest at the feet of Liz Derby of unhappy memory.”

  “Well, it was an unhappy house even before Derby arrived, but she certainly added to its wretchedness. Tell me, what did you do with the documents you found at her house?”

  I responded by telling her, in very broad terms, what I had found in Derby’s secret room and my current investigation.

  “And this person, Winters, you say you’re looking for, Mr Holmes, I assume it’s a matter of some urgency that you find him, given the extent of your efforts.”

  “It is indeed, Lady Beatrice. I regret I cannot be more explicit about the reasons, but I can assure you it is a matter of the greatest urgency.”

  “How old is the letter? Is there some way you can narrow it down and so determine in which house she was working when she stole it?”

  “I have been through every moment of Derby’s career going back five years. The ‘Winters’ letter is quite recent, I believe, judging by the condition of the paper, but I cannot narrow it beyond roughly two or three years. Since it is best to err on the side of caution, I have extended that period to five years. The likelihood is that it is much, much more recent than that. I do not suppose you ever heard of such a person visiting Rillington Manor?”

  “No one by that name, I’m afraid,” she said. “But if you cannot narrow down the period by the paper, is there a test you can make on the ink?”

  “Ha!” I cried. “You have the mind of a scientist, Lady Beatrice. It is a great pity you were not born a man.

  “The letter is written in ink made of iron gall in Schlutigg and Neumann’s formula.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with it. Ink is made of iron salt and a binder of some sort, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Generally inks have three basic ingredients in common: Iron salt, as you say, usually ferrous sulphate; plant tannins which are extracted from the likes of oak tree galls; and a binder like gum Arabic which keeps the particles in suspension and enables the ink to flow. Iron gall ink does not fade, not even over extremely long periods of time. This permanence makes testing for its age almost impossible.”

  “I see the difficulty,” she said.

  “If we were dealing with decades perhaps I could devise some sort of test...”

  “I can make discreet inquiries, if you like,” she said. “If the matter is so grave as you seem to think I should like to help.”

  “Thank you, Lady Beatrice. You must be very discreet indeed. I am fearful that this fellow, if he is still in London, may flee if he learns that I am looking for him. It is a matter of the gravest importance that I speak to him.”

  “I shall be very circumspect, I promise.”

  Her cheeks flushed with pleasure or excitement. I suppose she does not have many opportunities to make a meaningful contribution beyond donating to the church fund.

  Over dessert she asked about the assault that had been the means of introducing us. “Who was that man? Did you ever find him?” she asked.

  “His name was Alberto Calvini,” I said. “I believe he was hired by the same villain who wrote the letter to this Winters fellow. Calvini was found dead on the Embankment some months ago.”

  “He was hired to attack you?” She put down her spoon and I could see her reason through a number of possibilities and dangers. After some moments she said, “Then I infer this villainous overseer is still at large since you are hoping Winters will lead you to him. Have there been other attempts made against you?”

  I made a show of nonchalance and said, “No, none.”

  “Come, Mr Holmes, I think there is more to the story than that.”

  It is really most unsettling to find a woman with such insight. I need to be on my guard with her as much as I am with Watson, although I suspect I shall have no better luck concealing my fears from the lady than I do the doctor.

  “I am being watched and followed. Thus far the brutes have not raised a hand against me since that night in February, but it is unsettling and inconvenient. I have had to devise other means of egress from my home in order to conduct my researches. Do not be alarmed, Lady Beatrice. I assure you I am quite capable of looking after myself.”

  “But you cannot mean these villains continue to prey upon you, Mr Holmes,” the Lady said. “Surely they can be arrested?”

  “You and Doctor Watson take the same view of things,” I said. “He would have me arrest all of them who show up in Baker Street to spy on me. But, you see, these men are nothing, are mere foot soldiers in a huge army. Besides which merely following me is not illegal.”

  “No, I see your point.” She sipped her wine thoughtfully. “What do you know of the leader?”

  “Not nearly as much as I should like. The man who now leads that villainous gang has ties with some of the most unscrupulous characters in Europe and even in the North American territories. He would like nothing better than to see our nation destroyed...” I paused. It was rare for me to discuss such matters outside my most trusted circle; unheard of for me to discuss anything approaching politics with a woman. However, something about this particular woman seems to invite confidence, in both senses of that word.

  “What makes a man forget his principles?” she mused, her meal forgotten in her utter focus on the subject. “He cannot always have been evil, surely? What is his background?”

  I said, “He is, outwardly, a perfectly ordinary Englishman though with a pronounced Germanic flavour. He is highly intelligent and well educated. He is fluent in several languages, has a fine appreciation for music, and wide knowledge of a number of subject, particularly politics.”

  “You could be describing yourself, Mr Holmes,” Lady Beatrice said, smiling.

  “In outward things, yes. But dig deeper and you find many differences. This individual began his life of crime when he was hardly more than a boy. Despite his education, he was expelled from at least half a dozen schools, here in England and abroad. Only family name and money enabled him to go to Oxford where, I confess, he excelled in his studies of politics and languages. Despite these and other accomplishments, even then he was befriending men as unsavoury as himself.

  “His name has been linked to a number of political scandals, including a number of assassinations, and yet he is a family man, a devoted father and, so far as I can tell, a faithful husband.”

  Lady Beatrice shook her head. “What a creature. It worries me to think of you at risk, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I wonder...” She took a moment to select her words and then said, “As you know, Stevens is with me for a few months. Even after he is accepted by the police force, as I have no doubt he shall be, he will have to wait for the next admission period before he can join. I really do not have enough to keep him occupied, but perhaps he might be of assistance to you? You could use the carriage to convey you to your destinations. Do please say you will, Mr Holmes. I confess it would greatly relieve my anxiety to know you were not walking alone through darkened streets. I know Stevens would be delighted to be of service; he holds you in the very highest regard.”

  I hesitated only a moment. “I am happy to use the carriage and Stevens on occasion,” I said. “So long as my doing so does not inconvenience you, Lady Beatrice.”

  For the next ten minutes we haggled over the arrangement and finally decided I would call when I needed Stevens and he would come to Baker Street to convey me whenever I wished. In thanks for the Lady’s generosity, I offered to escort her to the symphony next week, an outing that pleases both of us.

  Over cheese and biscuits I said, “What news of your aunt and the rest of the company in Rillington Manor? Have you heard from that household or have you lost all contact with its inhabitants?”

 
“I’m afraid I know very little, Mr Holmes. Stevens tells me my aunt was well when he left, but I have had no news from her directly. The rest of the household seems... unsettled from what Stevens says. Or rather, from what he contrives not to say. Neither he nor Derby were ever replaced and that has put some strain on the remaining servants. Daisy will be leaving soon, too. She and Stevens mean to marry just as soon as he begins his new position. As for Miss Simms, I believe she and Mr Davenport expect to marry next year.”

  “And Wallace Summerville? Have you heard any more from him?”

  She shuddered. “I have heard from him, but I would prefer not to discuss that matter, if you don’t mind, Mr Holmes.”

  “As you wish,” I replied. “Tell me, do you play any other instruments.?”

  After dinner we adjourned to the drawing room where my hostess required little persuasion to take her seat at the piano. She happily played every piece I requested: Bach and Beethoven, Mozart and Brahms. She played with such skill as I have rarely heard even in the finest concert halls of Europe. I told her so and she said, “Alas, I have never had the opportunity to attend any concerts save the ones here in England. I should love to go to Italy and hear my favourite pieces played there.”

  At the end of our very pleasant evening, Stevens was delighted to convey me back to Baker Street and he chattered away quite merrily as we went. He was full of excitement about his new career prospects.

  “Between ourselves, Mr Holmes,” he said. “Inspector Lestrade said with your recommendation and his own I should have no difficulty being accepted. Lady Beatrice too has been kind enough to give me a reference - a good thing since I doubt I would get one from Sir Christopher. All I can do now is wait.”