A Biased Judgement Page 25

  “Very well, Holmes. I said my name was Ward and I needed a new governess to take care of my three children. I said that my neighbours, the Porlocks, had recommended the agency. The first two places seemed bewildered, but I got lucky on the third one, an agency called Winthrop’s. Miss Winthrop herself immediately knew the name and said she had placed Madame du Pury with the Porlocks and the family were well pleased with her. A difficult family to please, she said. They wanted someone who spoke French as well as English and played the piano. Rather curiously, she added, they insisted the right candidate should have no German.”

  “Excellent!” I cried, clapping my hands together. “Ah, you have excelled, my dear Watson. Well done, well done, indeed.”

  There was a knock at the door and Mrs Hudson came in with her maid carrying the supper. Stevens followed immediately behind.

  “Come in, Stevens, I said. You can have my seat. Where’s the Bradshaw? Ah, here it is...”

  “At least have some coffee, Holmes,” Watson said. “I know it’s pointless to try to persuade you to eat, but you must certainly drink.”

  “Oh, very well. What’s the matter with you, Stevens? We do not stand on ceremony here. Sit, sit.”

  “Please do join us, Stevens,” Watson said. “No point in food going to waste. You’re off out, Holmes?”

  “Yes. I want to catch the next train to Southampton.”

  “Southampton, Mr Holmes?” Stevens said. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No, no. I shall do very well on my own, I think. You and the good doctor please stay here and deal with any questions or other issues that may arise. Watson, young Billy may report in with news. If there’s anything urgent leave a message for me at the inn in Southampton. I shall use the name Mead. And if Lestrade calls tell him I hope to return to London on the last train. Tell him to delay his, uh, guest until I arrive.”

  Happily, I missed Lestrade and Hill at Waterloo. Undoubtedly, they took the earlier train, a fact that suited me very well. I thoroughly dislike chatter. Small talk on a train is a waste of an environment which I have always found so conducive to thought. So, here I sit in the stuffy compartment, packed with Saturday evening travellers, mulling over the events of the day and days, writing my journal. My handwriting reflects the syncopated rhythm of the train’s motion.

  I am not optimistic of finding anything of interest in Rillington Manor, but with so much at stake I can hardly ignore the possibility, no matter how slight it might be. If I am happily wrong I shall be able to dispatch Summerville and Porlock alike into the arms of justice. If not...

  My plan for breaching Porlock’s bastion worries me. Not because I doubt its potential for success, but because the risk is so very great. Were the risk mine alone I should cheerfully accept it, but this risk is not mine. What sort of a husband shall I be if my first act is to put my wife in the gravest possible danger? What sort of man does such a thing? And yet, and yet... For all my cleverness, I cannot devise a better alternative.

  Evening had fallen by the time I arrived at the inn in Bitterne. Dressed as I was, still, as an old man with rheumatism, no one recognised me. The landlord said there had been no messages for a Mr Mead.

  For some time I sat in the lounge drinking a pint of bitters. There was a good crowd present, and all was merriment and laughter. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and the backdraught from the fire. In the centre of the small room six young men sat around a crooked table. They were very tall, almost as tall as I, and burly with it. Their bulk was given voice by their boisterous conversation.

  “Strapping young lads,” I said to the innkeeper as he poured my pint. He glanced up and made a wry face. “That’s the Lowry boys, Mr Mead,” he said. “Good boys as a rule but they get very wild when they’ve had a drop. They’re always worse on a Saturday night since they’ve just got their wages... You might want to make yourself scarce if things start to get ugly. Wouldn’t do for an old gentleman like yourself to get hurt.”

  “I thank ’ee for the caution,” I replied. “But why don’t the local police handle those matters? It’s not right for a respectable businessman like yourself to have to put up with such nonsense.”

  “You’re right there, sir, but I can’t blame Mr Greer. He’s a decent gentleman and he takes care of matters sure enough, but he can’t arrest them until they’ve done something. Besides, he’s a bit busy tonight.”

  “Busy?” I sipped my drink and looked innocently over the rim of my spectacles.

  “Some gents from London arrived about an hour ago. They’ve headed up to the manor with the inspector. Still, he’ll be along soon enough, I’m sure; I just hope those London gentlemen don’t delay him too long. Just watch yourself there, sir, and give the Lowrys a wide berth.”

  Over the next hour the tension in the inn gradually increased as the Lowry men sank deeper and deeper into their cups. Fortunately, just as they began to throw things at one another, Greer arrived, looking harassed and tired. Immediately, the mood in the inn cracked and the tension dissipated. It was impressive to see a man carry such respect.

  As the crowd in the inn shuffled and formed into new groups I slipped out and walked up the hill towards the manor.

  22

  Twenty minutes later I walked up the familiar driveway. It was remarkable to see the difference a few months had made to the estate. The blowsy pink roses were gone now and not merely due to the weather and the season: every one of the bushes had been hacked down. Indeed, most of the garden had been trampled and, though the damage had undoubtedly occurred weeks ago, the signs of destruction remained fresh. There was malice in this devastation, I thought.

  I made my way around the back to the servants’ entrance. Daisy was just coming out and she said, “Oh I beg your pardon. Were you looking for a bite of food? There’s not much in the house, but no doubt cook could give you some soup.”

  “Thank’ee,” I said, selecting Dorset for my accent purely on a whim. I like to vary it. “Quiet night,” I said. “I ’oped to ’ave a word with your master about some work.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “But the master and his brother are on their way to London. I doubt they’ll be back before morning. Now, you sit there by the fire and I’ll see if Mrs Bracken has some food she can spare you.”

  I went into the kitchen where, just a few months ago, I spent a pleasant evening hunting for a key with the woman I shall soon marry, and found myself alone. An easy matter to slip up those stairs and begin my search.

  I quickly stole up the back staircase and made my way along the family hallway towards the room which had been Wallace Summerville’s customary bedchamber; the one I had the use of when last I stayed here.

  The house was still, almost as if it were holding its breath. Although I am not a superstitious man, I confess I felt something unwholesome in the stillness. I strained my ears for a sound. After a moment’s intense concentration, I could make out a muffled whimper in Lady Summerville’s room. If the mistress of the house was unwell, that might explain the preternatural quiet. All the same, the message of that destroyed garden suggested something far more sinister than a minor ailment.

  I could not investigate that matter now, however. I must focus all my attention on uncovering Summerville’s secrets.

  His room was neat and tidy, though not by his hand. I have seen how he lives when left to his own devices. Conclusion: the housemaid has restored him to order.

  I began with his suitcase, but it contained nothing more than a newspaper from three days earlier and, curiously, a cameo brooch with what appeared to be my fiancée’s profile carved in onyx. I examined the brooch closely but it was clearly of more sentimental value than monetary. For the first time it occurred to me that Wallace Summerville may have some genuine regard for Beatrice. I found myself strangely unsettled by this realisation, but was determined not to let it dist
ract me from the task at hand.

  For a moment I considered taking the cameo; I suspected it had been acquired by unscrupulous means, but on reflection decided to let it be. After all, I could not be certain the trinket was not Summerville’s own. I had already turned the door handle when I thought further about the newspaper. It seemed odd that Summerville should have one three-days old in his possession. He is, as I have observed, slovenly in his habits and very likely he had merely forgotten it. Still, on the chance that it might be of worth, I rolled it up and stuck it in my coat pocket.

  The house remained still and I stealthily made my way into Sir Christopher’s room. It was clean and orderly, though a sour smell suggested illness... or alcoholism.

  Something in this room seemed changed since my last visit. I stared at the wall and after a few moments, realised the picture that hung there was new. I went to take a closer look - the painting itself was an amateurish attempt at a vase of lilies - and found it concealed a wall safe. Obviously Sir Christopher had learned his lesson from the late, unlamented Liz Derby.

  Opening the lock took a few minutes, but eventually I heard that satisfying click and the door swung open.

  The safe contained legal documents: the deeds to the manor and his will, nothing of consequence. The letters were more interesting: most of them were from creditors, but three were from his brother. These I slipped into my pocket then I closed the safe and slipped from the room.

  I was just about to head down the back staircase when my attention was caught by a low whimpering sound.

  I hesitated, but only for a moment. Then I went back and knocked on Lady Summerville’s door.

  A weak voice bade me enter.

  My fiancée’s aunt was in bed and she started when she saw me.

  “Hush, Lady Summerville,” I soothed. “It is I, Sherlock Holmes.”

  She began to cry; indeed she had been crying. Not for the first time I wished Doctor Watson were with me. He has such a happy knack for dealing with distressed ladies.

  I dithered for a moment. I dislike dithering. It shows a want of intelligence. In my defence, it probably was of very short duration. I said, “What has happened, Lady Summerville? You are unwell, I see. Your niece is very concerned for you.”

  She blinked and, through muffled sobs said, “Beatrice? Is she all right? Oh, Mr Holmes, I have been so fearful for her.”

  “Because of your brother-in-law, you mean?” I said. “He will not trouble her again.”

  “Christopher was so angry today. Word came from London that Wallace, that Wallace...” but what words followed, if there were any, were drowned beneath a vat of tears.

  Her condition was pitiable and, indeed, I did pity her. But it was pity conjoined with irritation. What on earth could possess the woman?

  “What happened to your garden?” I asked. “Your husband destroyed it because he was angry with your niece for refusing his brother’s proposal of marriage?”

  She nodded. Still weeping.

  “You cannot stay here, Lady Summerville. Your husband is a brute of a man.”

  “I am his wife,” she spat back with more determination than I would have expected. “I made my bed...”

  “But you do not have to stay,” I pointed out. “I can take you with me to join your niece. I give you my word that none of the Summervilles will ever harm you again.”

  Suddenly her tears stopped and she stared with me with such hope that I almost forgot my irritation. She reached out and grasped my hand. “You are a good man, Mr Holmes. Not just a gentleman... heroic,” she concluded. “Like a Lancelot.”

  There was no answer to this extraordinary statement and I attempted none. But she said, “I cannot leave; not because I am afraid - though I am afraid. You see, I’m going to have a baby. I know I must seem much too old for such a thing; my doctor is amazed. But I must stay for the sake of my child. Christopher will be a new man when he holds his son in his arms. Oh yes, it is a boy. I’m quite certain of it.

  “The garden... it was upsetting indeed, the act of the moment. He is a passionate man, my husband, and he deeply regretted his actions as soon as his temper waned. If you could only have seen his tears of remorse... He loved that garden too, after all. Many a happy hour we spent together with our roses.

  “I know what a low opinion you have of him. You’re not alone, you know; I see how people look at him, hear what they say. But you don’t know him the way I do. I love him, Mr Holmes, and he loves me. It’s just that he’s been so worried...”

  “About money?” I said.

  “Money, yes, but mostly about Wallace. He loves his brother, Mr Holmes; he worries about him. Some years ago young Wallace fell in love. She was wholly inappropriate, a woman with the most dreadful reputation, but Wallace truly loved her. He lived with her and despite everything he was happy. Christopher should simply have let them be but there was family honour at stake, do you see?”

  “He separated them?”

  “Yes.” She had stopped crying for the moment but her sadness had immeasurable depths. “That was a turning point for Wallace. He began to drink and gamble. Then, six months later the girl died in childbirth... we do not know who the father was, but Wallace was adamant it was he. Since then his life has been one of increasing debt and disaster. He’s forever begging my husband for money, and Christopher... He blames himself. Can you see, Mr Holmes? If he’d just left well enough alone perhaps it would have worked out, but now Wallace hates Christopher and cannot forgive him.”

  “And now they are in such debt they see your niece as their only hope,” I said.

  Lady Summerville wiped her face with an inadequate lace handkerchief and said with surprising dignity, “Please tell Beatrice that I am very well and I hope we may see each other again after my child is born.”

  There was no help for it. I left the room and went back down to the kitchen. Daisy was alone, sitting at the table polishing the silver.

  “Oh,” she said. “I wondered where you’d got to. What were you doing, anyway? I’ll catch hell if you’ve nicked something.”

  “I assure you, Daisy, the house is exactly as I found it,” I said in my normal voice. “But I thought you were going to London to marry young Mr Stevens.”

  “Oh, la, it’s Mr Holmes!” she cried. Then, at my gesture, lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m due to go to London in February, once Maurice finishes his training and gets settled. But what are you doing here, Mr Holmes? Did Lady Beatrice send you?”

  “It’s a secret, Daisy. Tell me, what has been happening here? Where is everyone?”

  “Well, Mr Greer came with two other gentlemen a few hours ago and hauled off Mr Wallace Summerville for questioning, they said. Sir Christopher said it was outrageous and he wouldn’t stand for it. So off they went to London together. I can’t imagine we’ll see them before morning.”

  “And the staff? Where are they all?”

  “Well, Maurice left to go with Lady Beatrice - but you know that, already. And no one was hired to replace him or that awful Derby person. Miss Simms is getting married to Mr Davenport so she’s leaving at the first of the year. All the grounds staff were let go weeks ago - you saw the rose garden? Terrible business that was, with the master shouting and saying he would take an axe to the whole country if he could.

  “Who else did I forget? Oh yes, cook. Mrs Bracken is ready to retire. There’s only Mr Reynolds left really.”

  “And where is Reynolds this evening?”

  “He’s gone to bed. Had a spot too much to drink and turned in right after the gentlemen left.”

  I couldn’t imagine how a house of this size could manage without staff. Certainly Lady Summerville wasn’t capable of running it. In response to my question, Daisy’s voice dropped and she said, “Now, this is a big secret, Mr Holmes. Even the staff aren’t supposed to
know: they’re leaving the country. Sir Christopher and the mistress and Mr Wallace - they’re off to Canada in just a few days. They wanted to slip away without telling anyone. Probably mean not to pay us, neither. I’d be gone already if I had a place in London but I can’t expect Lady Beatrice to put me up and all, can I?”

  “How did you find out about Canada if it’s a secret?”

  “Mr Reynolds got drunk one night and told us everything. About how he was going to live it up in Canada and how England was done for...”

  “Do you know when they’re planning on leaving, Daisy? Or what ship they’re sailing on?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t. By the first of the year, I’d guess, but it’s only a guess. I think the mistress will want to spend Christmas in her home.”

  Her eyes teared up and drops hovered on the lashes before spilling down her pale cheeks. “She’s lived here her whole life, Mr Holmes. It’s not right that she’s being forced away from her home.”

  As soon as my train pulled in at Waterloo, I hastened to Mycroft’s offices at Whitehall. It was now dark and the building seemed empty, other than old Gillespie. He said, “Ah, good evening, Mr Holmes. He’s still upstairs, working late as usual. Can I bring you a cup of tea?”

  “That would be most welcome, thank you, Gillespie. Your son is still unwell, I see.”

  “There, now, only you and your brother would notice such a thing. Mr Mycroft Holmes said he spotted the stub of my ticket to Woolwich in my pocket. You do have sharp eyes, the two of you.”

  “As do you, Mr Gillespie. You’re the only man I know who can instantly see through my disguise, no matter how cleverly applied.”

  He chuckled and I hurried up the narrow wooden staircase to Mycroft’s office on the top floor.

  “Come in, Sherlock,” he said before I even reached his door.

  Mycroft looked up from his desk and made a moue of distaste as I entered.

  “I realise you’re playing the part of one of London’s unfortunates, my dear brother,” he said. “But surely you could have taken a moment to bathe?”