A Biased Judgement Read online

  I frowned. It seemed all my best ideas were being thwarted. At the time I was annoyed but now, in the calmer moments of today, I respect and admire her loyalty. But at the time I said rather irritably, “You could bring charges against Summerville for his assault.”

  She smiled. “Let me tell you a story, Mr Holmes. When I was a young girl I wanted to be a professional musician. Thanks to my father I had an excellent education and studied the piano under some of the finest teachers in the world. They all agreed I had talent enough to tour as a concert pianist. It was also what I wanted.”

  “And why didn’t you?”

  “My family objected. That is to say, the queen objected. She felt travelling the world and ‘attracting notoriety’ would disgrace my family. As you see, I am not a concert pianist.”

  “A loss to the world,” I said, and meant it. “So you believe bringing charges against Summerville must also be seen as bringing notoriety? Surely the queen would not want to see her goddaughter so abused.”

  “I am sure she would not, but she will not hear of Summerville’s abuse from me nor from any of my friends. She is old and becoming frail. Although we do not always agree I am very fond of her. Besides, even were she not my godmother, she is still the queen.”

  “But surely shooting a man would be even more notorious than bringing charges,” I persisted.

  “I wouldn’t use the weapon, Mr Holmes. Just the threat of it would protect me, I am sure.”

  I was less certain. I suspected the Lady spoke more in hope than in fact. From what I know of Wallace Summerville I believed there was very little evil he will not do. Any man who would strike a woman might be capable of anything. On the other hand, leaving Lady Beatrice without some means of protection was unconscionable.

  “You had a weapon before, I think,” I said, remembering the sad end of Edmund Villiers.

  She met my eyes and said, calmly, “I was in the habit of bringing my father’s revolver with me to Rillington Manor, but... I seem to have mislaid it.”

  For a moment neither of us spoke. Then the Lady continued, “I do not expect an immediate answer, Mr Holmes. I realise my request places you in a difficult situation. And if you feel you must decline I will of course understand.”

  Before I could respond Mrs Hudson accompanied by a hesitant Watson came into the room with a tray.

  “There now,” said our housekeeper. “A pot of fresh coffee to keep out the cold. Can I bring you some supper, Lady Beatrice?”

  “Thank you, I’m afraid not. I really must get home pretty soon, but I am very grateful for the coffee, it is just the thing.” She smiled at Mrs Hudson and that old woman flushed with pleasure. Not for the first time, I marvelled at the natural talent some people possess for making others feel at ease. It is a talent I have never possessed. Watson says I just need to set my mind to it. I flatter myself my mind has better things to employ it.

  For a long time after Lady Beatrice left I sat with my violin resting on my knees but with my bow silent. After waiting more than an hour for me to speak, Watson at last said, “Are you able to help our young friend, Holmes?”

  “She wants a weapon, Watson. She wants me to tell her where to get a gun.”

  “To protect herself; I see.” Absently, he rubbed his leg. The dampness of the season has been causing him some pain, I perceive, but he never complains. He muffled a wince as he eased back in his chair and said, “Firearms are a tricky business, even for an experienced man. Is it a good idea to put one into the hands of a young woman, no matter how competent she appears?”

  “I confess I share your apprehension,” I replied. “I am afraid that a slight young woman could so easily be disarmed and have the weapon used against her.”

  “Yet her options, as you said yourself, are rather limited. What other choice does she have?”

  What choice, indeed? That is the question that vexes me. It dances around my brain and keeps me from sleep. It is almost three am and I am no closer to either rest or a solution. I can forgo the former readily enough, but the second... what am I to do about the second?

  November 24th, 1897

  All night I wrestled with the question. Were Lady Beatrice merely some acquaintance made in the course of an investigation I would be sympathetic, but feel under no obligation. But the fact remains, I almost certainly owe her my life. Surely that gives me some responsibility for her protection?

  I spent the day in Finsbury. Tommy has been keeping close watch on Porlock’s house but has nothing to report. The governess comes out each afternoon with the little girls, regardless of the weather. They spend precisely half an hour walking around the park and then, punctual to the minute, return to the house. Albrecht Porlock’s routine has not changed. Mrs Porlock is seldom seen outdoors save on one occasion when she and her husband left in a carriage, presumably to a concert since Tommy reports they were dressed formally.

  I sent the boy away to get some food and rest and kept watch until the next Irregular, young Kevin, arrived. I sat on a park bench and had a clear view through the ground floor front window, despite the lace curtains. Husband and wife were at the piano. She was playing and he was turning the pages of her music. In that instant I had a sudden flash of inspiration. An idea so startling, so outrageous it quite took my breath away.

  Kevin arrived and I gave him his instructions and then walked back to Baker Street, thinking hard as I walked.

  Watson was out somewhere so I had supper alone. I hardly tasted the food. My idea consumed me.

  No, I have thought it through from every angle. It cannot be helped. A great sacrifice to be sure, but there is no other way.

  I know what I must do.

  November 25th, 1898

  This morning I called upon Lady Beatrice. She greeted me with her customary grace, and no casual observer would ever suspect her anxiety.

  “You should have had Stevens come and fetch you, Mr Holmes,” she said.

  “My shadows have vanished for the moment,” I said. “And I took a cab without any difficulty.”

  I sat facing her in her library and said, “I have been thinking over your request, Lady Beatrice.”

  “You have qualms about giving a firearm to a woman. I understand.”

  “It is not because you are a woman. You are as capable as any man; more than most, I dare say. But I am reluctant to give you a weapon that can be so easily turned against you.”

  She said, too brightly, “It was a foolish thought. Thank you for considering it, Mr Holmes.”

  “I have an axiom: once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth.”

  “I believe I have heard the phrase,” she said.

  “It may also be applied to life’s problems: once you have eliminated all impossible or impracticable solutions, whatever remains is the one you must take.”

  “So, then, you suggest I marry Summerville,” she said.

  “By no means! No, no, such a course would at best be a slow suicide. No indeed, you cannot marry that worm. But I do think you should marry. It is the only way to ensure your safety.”

  She laughed though there was no mirth in the sound. “Mr Holmes, I am twenty-seven years of age and although I am wealthy I no longer have long lines of suitors waiting to propose. Where is such a husband to be found?”

  I took a breath and said, “I will marry you. If you will have me.”

  She stared at me in utter astonishment for several silent moments and then she threw her head back and laughed. She laughed so long and so hard that I was afraid she would become hysterical. However, she recovered herself then managed to say, “I had not labelled you a prankster, Mr Holmes, but I thank you for that laugh. It was sorely needed... Wait, you cannot mean you are serious? Forgive me, but... Why?”

  “I am not proposing a traditional marriage, Lady Beat
rice,” I said. “Our living arrangements need not change save as much as is needed to present a show of convention to watchful eyes. I would continue to live at Baker Street and you here in Wimpole Street. We need see no more of each other than we do at present. You may rest assured I would never make any demands of you... and of course your property would remain yours to manage as you have always done.”

  She leaned forward, her eyes bright. “What an extraordinary suggestion! Oh, it is a generous offer, Mr Holmes, and as brilliant a solution as I can imagine, but really, I cannot allow you to make such a sacrifice.”

  “There is no sacrifice,” I said. “There is nothing sentimental in my nature. I have no need of romantic attachments. This marriage would simply be a matter of convenience.”

  “But the benefit is entirely on my side, Mr Holmes. Certainly you would be entitled to my fortune, which is considerable, but you have already said I would continue to control that.”

  “I am a wealthy man and my needs are simple. I have no need for anything more. But I have not forgotten the great debt that I owe you - no, do not demur.”

  “I was not about to. I was going to point out that sacrificing your freedom seems... excessive. As for the happy accident that enabled me to aid you, I do not require recompense.”

  I confess this was not the response I had expected. I had thought - inasmuch as I’d thought of it at all - that the Lady would be delighted at the offer, would accept with alacrity. Her refusal to do so was surprisingly unsettling.

  “Then,” I said, rather coldly. “What is your solution, Lady Beatrice?”

  “You know I do not have one. But how can I buy my own security at the expense of your liberty?”

  “My liberty? Come, you make too much of a trifle. Do you think you would want me to play the traditional role of the husband?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then you think we should live under the same roof?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Ah, then perhaps you are hoping to find for yourself a husband more suited to your taste.”

  “By no means. Mr Holmes, my only scruple is to refuse to allow you to pay a cost greater than the odds.”

  “The odds, in this case, is my life.”

  “That is by no means certain...” She broke off and I saw her struggle. She rose from her chair and paced the floor. I sat, waiting.

  After several minutes she sat before me again.

  “You would really do such an extraordinary thing?” she said. “You know I would never ask more of you? If we are to engage in this extraordinary... engagement we should sit and design a contract so we are both clear on the point.”

  I laughed. “If a contract is what you wish, Lady Beatrice, a contract is what you shall have.”

  We debated the matter then for another half an hour. It was, I thought, an academic exercise for the lady; she was still reluctant to accept my offer. I was confident, however, that once she had taken the time to ponder the matter she would see there really was no other choice.

  For the next half hour we amused ourselves by listing the parameters of our contract, focusing on the absurdities. We have agreed upon the following:

  Our living arrangements shall not alter save on the occasion when some measure of outward appearance is necessary. In the unlikely event that either of us must stay at the other’s home, we shall, of course, have our own bedchamber.

  We each keep our own bank accounts and management of our own funds.

  I am to escort the Lady to the theatre at least once a month. (We did harangue over whether the opera or symphony should be specified, but these things are dependent upon the vagaries of the Opera House and the musical calendar so we have agreed to be no more specific than that.)

  My fiancée (how strange!) agrees to play the pianoforte for me at least once a month. We discussed a reciprocal arrangement whereby I play the violin for her, but ultimately decided this should be on an ad hoc basis. I find I cannot play to any sort of schedule.

  The Lady’s unusual nocturnal activities are to remain at her own discretion. In any event, she has had to curtail them, of late, as it is likely that Summerville is keeping her watched.

  Our engagement, should the Queen approve, is to be of at least a year’s duration. Longer, if possible. If Her Majesty should not survive to see our wedding day, we shall quietly terminate our arrangement.

  I am to call the palace tomorrow to see if I may have an appointment with the Queen. First, though, I must relate my news to Mycroft. I am not greatly looking forward to either encounter.

  November 26th, 1897

  This morning I went to meet my brother for breakfast. It was only right that he should be the first to hear news of this sort, and from my own lips.

  We dined at the club and I told him of my marriage proposal to Lady Beatrice. He stared at me for several minutes in silence. It is the first time I have ever seen Mycroft stunned. At length he said, “You have no great attachment to this woman do you, Sherlock?”

  “I have the greatest admiration for her mind,” I said. “But there is no romantic attachment, if that is what you mean.”

  “Good, that is good.”

  “Why so?”

  “Because it will not cause you too much pain to learn the Lady is to be married. I had it myself last night from Harris. Summerville has been to Windsor and has received the Queen’s permission to marry her goddaughter.”

  18

  To Mycroft’s considerable astonishment and embarrassment I jerked to my feet, upending the tea cup as I did so and sending a small spray of milk across the table.

  “Sherlock? Good God, whatever is the matter?”

  “This cannot be permitted, Mycroft. He will kill her... but first he will make her suffer in unimaginable ways. It is not to be borne, you must excuse me.”

  In less than half an hour I was knocking on the door of Lady Beatrice’s home in Wimpole Street. The Lady was in the library and she greeted me stoically.

  “Well,” she said. “So you have heard.”

  “From my brother. It is true? I see from your countenance it is. Please sit down, you look very ill.”

  She obeyed me and I called for the maid to bring some coffee.

  We sat then in silence. I do not deal well in these situations. I have not Watson’s unerring ability to find the right phrase, to offer comfort. So I said nothing and we sat there until the coffee was brought and poured and the maid left and we were alone again.

  We sipped our coffee and then I said, “It is not too late. I will go to the Queen and make my own application for your hand. Or if you prefer we could elope?”

  “I cannot elope; it would embarrass the Queen. You really are determined to go through with this plan? To marry me, I mean. Now that you’ve had time to sleep on it, perhaps you have changed your mind?”

  “My mind remains unchanged. And the matter has become one of some urgency now, I think.”

  It was a measure of her distress that her hair was untidy. An auburn strand had fallen loose from its pins and curled onto her shoulder. She tends to such precision in her dress and toilette as a rule, that one curl spoke volumes. Absently she twirled it around and around her fingers.

  She said, “You must be sure, absolutely sure, Mr Holmes. If we approach the queen and ask her permission, there will be no going back. At least, not without scandal and a great deal of unpleasantness.”

  “My mind is quite made up,” I said.

  “I still have qualms about allowing you to make such a sacrifice, despite our most amusing contract. But...” She bit her lip and looked at me. “If you are certain, then, yes.”

  “I shall make application to Her Majesty at her earliest convenience.”

  “I think I should come with you,” she said. “If I add my voice to yours she
is more likely to be swayed. The queen has a strange affection for the Summervilles. Their grandfather was a close friend of Prince Albert’s and Her Majesty is very loyal to the people her husband loved. However, she holds you in esteem too, I know. I believe I can convince her that I will be happy with you.”

  She managed a fleeting smile and I was pleased to see some colour return to her cheeks.

  “The queen likes me well enough,” I agreed. “Though she is vexed at my repeated refusal of a knighthood. Still, I do not think she will hold that against me.

  “If I may use your telephone I shall make the call now. It is fortunate Her Majesty has not yet left for the Isle of Wight.”

  It was all arranged with remarkable ease and a few hours later Lady Beatrice and I sat in a large, elegant but impersonal room waiting to be admitted to the Queen’s presence. Her Majesty’s private secretary, Sir Arthur Bigge, said softly, “I do hope you will not cause the queen any anxiety, Mr Holmes. Her health is not good, and this time of year weighs heavily upon her with reminders of the loss of her beloved husband.”

  I assured him that we had only good news and a few moments later we were summoned into Her Majesty’s chamber. She sat, as she always did, in a small chair. She was dressed in the same black gown she had worn every time I have seen her. The left cuff had been replaced and the collar had been repaired. It seemed odd that the most powerful woman in the world should continue to wear the same gown. Then I realised I was focusing on trivia because I was, astonishingly, nervous.

  “You said this was a matter of some urgency, Mr Holmes?” Her Majesty said following our greeting. “Well, what is it?”

  “I understand your majesty has granted Wallace Summerville permission to marry Lady Beatrice,” I said.

  “What of it? This is a family matter, Mr Holmes. We are mindful of how much this Empire owes you but it does not allow you free reign over one’s private matters.”

  I glanced at Lady Beatrice. Though pale she was perfectly calm. She nodded almost imperceptibly.