Disquiet at Albany (4 page)

11

The Vicar Intervenes

Having kept our appointment at the rectory, we were enjoying our evening meal. The Rev. Marsden-Lee had earlier invited us to share a repast of roast haunch of venison at the supper table in the oak-panelled dining room, prepared by his housekeeper. The candles, I confess, cast a somewhat eerie illumination on the portraits in oils of previous incumbents that were hung about the room.

‘Dead!' The clergyman shrieked with laughter. ‘My dear Holmes, if only you had asked, I could have told you that much and saved you both a wasted journey. The matter of Tommy Weekes was of course uppermost in our conversation when we last spoke over sherry. I myself visited Foxbury Hall this afternoon after learning of our old Norwich M.P.'s passing. Most sad, but not entirely unexpected due to his chronic state of health. But, you know, it all went rather queer.'

‘What went rather queer?' said I, sampling a glass of excellent French wine.

‘We heard a rumour, a death up at the big house, Mr Sands's passing of course. Well, Mrs Lunn, our ministering angel, who does the flowers in my church, a woman of advanced years who whenever there is a death in the village takes it on herself, to prepare the deceased, washing, doing “the necessary”, sheeting the corpse, making everything presentable, by no means an interfering old busybody, came to see me in floods of tears. A man up at the manor house had apparently told her to get off the property. He called her a witch!'

Holmes glanced up from his plate, his pale, sallow, aquiline features all aquiver from the wavering light of the candelabrum on our table which cast shadows about the room, making those dratted oil paintings of stern old country parsons seem alive and overly judgemental.

‘Yes, I think we catch your drift, padre,' said he. ‘The old lady was naturally upset by this fellow's uncouth attitude'.

‘I asked her if it was not Mr Garson the valet to whom she referred. “Oh no sir,” she insisted, “for he is a gentleman's gentleman, a man of impeccable manners who should never dream of addressing a lady like that. This was a young man wearing red loafers claiming to be the son.”

‘ “But, my dear lady,” I replied, “Mr Sands was a confirmed bachelor. He never married in his life and was, before his illness, fond of his clubs and fine dining. He was a fellow who as far as I know had no understanding whatsoever of the ways of a woman's heart. Garson was his only constant companion over the years, in good times and bad. A son? Why, that's absurd! I shall ask cook to make you a very hot gin and water while I meanwhile go and give this young bounder a good talking to!”'

‘Bravo! Most commendable.'

‘I was appalled by the insensitive treatment of this woman who, after all, only wanted to help lay out Mr Sands with all the dignity and care she could muster, so I went up to the hall, cutting through the walled kitchen garden, and saw the back door to the house had been left open. Well, I am acquainted with Lord Astor, who rents Foxbury Hall out in the winter, and know the layout of the rooms fairly well from previous visits, so I let myself in and – what a shock – there was a group of Chinamen, I ask you, bickering with one another, consulting a map that had been laid out flat on the kitchen table, a map depicting the naked human form, indecent and covered in heretical symbols and underlinings, the diagram countenanced by numerals and Chinese letters of the alphabet. The abhorrent scent of powerful joss alerted me to Oriental mischief, wholly un-Christian ethics.'

‘Practitioners of alternative medicine,' corrected my companion good-naturedly. ‘They were merely discussing acupuncture, studying a chart, my dear Marsden-Lee. I have spent time in Tibet and China and can assure you there was nothing untoward regarding their activities. Do carry on. Your observations are first rate.'

‘Be that as it may, Mr Holmes, I demanded to see Mr Sands's body there and then, to view the corpse.'

‘Ha ha, by Jove that's good and pushy.'

‘To pray for the soul of the departed, to offer up a prayer for the dead in the Anglican faith. Well, my arrival was greeted with polite disapproval. I was bustled away by their leader, a tall, gangly Chinaman, austere to the extreme with a cruel mouth and menacing airs who went by the name of Wu. Doctor Wu Xing. He was evidently held in high esteem for the other Orientals would respectfully bow when referring to this chart of blasphemy.

‘I was evicted! Evicted from the hall as a trespasser. Me! The vicar of the parish and on friendly terms with Lord Astor. Well, I have not been back since.'

‘Did you perchance observe anything else of interest?' asked Holmes.

‘Now you come to mention it, I was passing round by the shrubbery and happened to peer into the billiard room. The windows look out onto the flower beds, and the lawn and tennis courts. Well, I chanced upon the strangest thing, for there on top of the green baize billiard table was a most peculiar receptacle. Not exactly a proper elm coffin, more of a wicker compostable shell, a lightweight coffin of basketwork favoured these days by faddish vegetarians and slavish pre-Raphaelite followers of William Morris who prefer to be buried beneath a flower bed in the garden.'

‘And of the young man calling himself the son?'

‘I saw nothing of him, Mr Holmes. He might well have been a complete stranger, an impostor for all we know.'

12

A Change of Plan

Inspector Wells called for us bright and early. We were ensconced in the snug of the Duck and Drake, eating our breakfast of ham and eggs, washed down by halves of warm beer, in front of a roaring log fire in the settle. One only had to glance out of the latticed window to confirm it was a misty, damp morning – grey and overcast.

‘An autopsy is to be performed over at Walpole St Thomas at nine of the clock, gentlemen. Doctor Clayborne is anxious we should start on time. I have the horse and trap waiting.'

‘Heaven forbid that we should delay proceedings, Inspector, but I fear we must return to London. There is at Albany in Piccadilly a mysterious disappearance which for now must take precedence over the Norfolk murders. After a brief walk to stretch the legs we will be departing for the station halt to catch the next London-bound train. My pocket
Bradshaw
indicates we shall be required to change at Cambridge.'

‘Well, I must say, isn't that highly irregular, Mr Holmes? What can possibly take precedence over two horribly orchestrated murders?'

‘Finding the perpetrator, Inspector. What else have you to tell me?'

‘Well, sir, we found something interesting when we were dredging the channel at Potters Ditch – a muddied, stout ash stick, more of a cudgel – handle of carved antler.'

‘Then I suggest you check locally who might own it! Landlord, a fill of your most excellent tobacco from the jar. Please prepare our bill, for we shall be leaving presently.'

I can report, upon our return journey to Norwich, our two-coach train propelled along the branch by a light engine, both of us were avidly reading the first editions of the daily papers, the pages of which were spread over the cloth-covered seats, and little was said.

My dear friend, his charred old briar-root pipe clenched between his teeth, was smoking contentedly, filling our compartment with the reek of coarse country inn tobacco. I tamped down strands of my own preferred Arcadia mixture into the bowl of my pipe and struck a match, glad to be leaving behind the dreary scene of the Broads and returning home to Baker Street.

We caught an express at Cambridge and as we rattled along, Holmes, as he was wont to do, while scowling at the obituary notices, proceeded to underline a section of print with his propelling pencil and passed me the folded newspaper. I was thus able to become further acquainted with the life and times of Ethby Sands, once an M.P. for Norwich, who owned a fabulous collection of rare, stuffed birds of paradise and had also, it seemed, notably composed a best-selling hymn tune. There was the proper mention of his final days, the enduring struggle he put up against the virulent form of wasting disease, and the correspondent ended with ‘Died peacefully in the early hours with his beloved valet Mr Henry Garson by his bedside at the country seat of Lord Astor in the county of Norfolk.'

‘A complete and utter fabrication, my dear Watson, cleverly placed in this morning's edition of the
Telegraph
. No doubt all the broadsheets bear testimony to his life ... and death. His admirers shall genuinely mourn his passing. His detractors wholly welcome it.'

‘Detractors – who are they?' I asked.

‘At present I am not at liberty to say. Once we have returned to the capital, might I bother you to accompany me to the Royal Geographical Society in Exhibition Road?'

‘Certainly,' said I, continuing to stare out of the compartment window.