Sherlock Holmes and the Missing Shakespeare (8 page)

Chapter Eleven:

Elementary!

When the police had finally left, Holmes and I refreshed ourselves at Lady Harcourt’s request and sat by the fire in the parlor, sipping brandy while we waited for the Harcourt carriage to arrive to take us back to London.

“Holmes,” I protested, “I’m still not quite sure how you figured it all out even without the crucial information I had about the murders.”

“I must say that once I had managed to make a solid connection between Reginald Galham and Gerald Fitzwilliam, it was rather easy business, Watson.”

“How so?” I pressed. I had to admit that the tiny piece of evidence changed nothing in my perception of the case. I was intrigued with whatever difference that information had made in Holmes’s mind.

“Well, it was clear from early on that Fitzwilliam wasn’t our man and Lady Harcourt would have had nothing to gain from the manuscript’s disappearance unless she had intended to sell it for profit.”

“Highly unlikely, considering her vast wealth and impeccable pedigree.”

“Precisely!” Holmes exclaimed. He paused dramatically in front of the fire, lifted a long wispy firebrand and used it to catch a flame from the fire to light his pipe. He puffed twice and swished the stick to put out the flames, returning it neatly to its place beside the fire poker. “In the tiny web of characters that made up our mystery, there was only one left at which I could point my suspicions.”

“Really, Holmes,” I said, exasperated. “I do sometimes think that you make these deductions of yours up after the fact. Could the manuscript not have been stolen at random?”

“Not at all, Watson. You yourself surmised that the robbery didn’t seem random and we agreed that the perpetrators must have been watching the goings on at Baker Street for quite a while to ascertain an easy access point.”

“True, indeed. So how did you confirm that it was Reginald who had been behind the entire thing?”

“Well, it’s as you always said, Watson. ‘The proper study of mankind is man.’ How many times have I heard you make this observation?” He paused again, but that was to attend to his pipe; he did not in the least way expect me to answer the question. “It was that very statement that led me into the next phase of the investigation. You see, faced with the truth about his legitimacy, Reginald was rather inclined to secure his claim to the seat of Galham. Indeed, Roger and his children were now dead, leaving him as the sole heir but if at any time the legitimacy of his claim could be challenged... then he would be stripped of title and land and perhaps even incarcerated.”

“Definitely incarcerated, if it were ever determined that he’d had a hand in the murder of the entire Galham family!” I exclaimed.

“Indeed, Watson, indeed. So, Reginald had to secure his claim and he did so by getting rid of the only other two people he could think of who would be able to prove he was not the son of the old earl.”

I thought about that. “His own true parents; the Dowager Countess and Reverend Jones!” I gasped. They were the only two people still alive who knew the truth and though they stood to benefit from Reginald ruling over Galham and its vast income, if put under the gun by the authorities, they would give him up as quick as a shot.

“They were murdered last night. Kendricks sent me the telegram. It was delayed on the afternoon train and was delivered after you arrived at Baker Street tonight.”

“But how did you know Reginald would be here?”

“Now that was sheer luck, my friend, but I did assume that if he’d murdered his true parents to keep his secret, the likelihood that he would be in quite a rush to execute the last move in his plan was rather elementary thinking and, as it turned out, I was right. After all, by taking out Gerald Fitzwilliam and Lady Jessica, all proof against him would have been eradicated.”

“Amazing!” I proclaimed. “You truly are, but I’m sure you already know that.”

“Perhaps, but there is still one small piece of the puzzle that I have yet to figure out.”

“What is that, dear friend?”

“Oh, my dear Watson, it is not the question of ‘what’ but rather, now it is a question of ‘how.’”

“Will you be able to come to a conclusion on it?”

“Considering your findings in the pathological reports of our murder victims, I am inclined to think now I will be.”

Chapter Twelve:

The Truth Will Set You Free

Reginald could not believe what he had just heard.

Now, he was raging inside. He felt betrayed and lost at the thought that everything he had ever known was a lie. Upon further reflection, he realized that that was exactly what his life had been. One long string of sad lies.

“The question, ‘brother,’” he said tersely, anger making his voice sound like barrels of rocks rolling down the side of a hill, “is what you’re going to do about this.”

“Neither of us would ever be able to hold our heads up in polite society again if any of this change gets out,” Roger stated, hating that he was being faced with the types of decisions he was having to make. “It seems that the practical thing to do is to proceed as normal. No one’s been hurt thus far but, as steward of this estate, I’m sure you know that it is my moral duty to protect its longevity and to ensure that it remains in the rightful hands.” Roger looked meaningfully at Reginald.

While Roger had the hot blinding anger of a Celtic warrior; Reginald had the cold, determined, calculating anger of deep winter. For him, it was a process. Steps that could be taken in order to achieve an end. Currently, all of that cold calculation was turned toward self-preservation. Reginald enjoyed a certain life, and he would be loath to give it up. The truth of their parentage would also prove to be an immovable barrier for the marriage he yearned for with Lady Harcourt.

“Roger, what the hell is that supposed to mean? You’re willing to continue to support me but until when? What are my stakes in this estate now? You’re no more legitimate than I am, as you well know,” Reginald spluttered, his anger debilitating even his basic ability to speak.

“Brother, that’s where you’re wrong,” Roger suddenly said forcefully. He needed Reginald to understand his position clearly and not feel any need to stir the pot further. “I can claim the paternal line of Galham, that the earl was my father. However, he was not yours.”

The conversation had gone on for a while longer with each man arguing back and forth, but Roger was stalwart in his decision. The estate would continue to support Reginald in the same fashion it always had and for the rest of his life, but under no circumstances would Reginald remain in the line of succession to the title of Galham.

Going in, Roger had foreseen an argument with Reginald, but what Roger hadn’t predicted was his vengeance.

***

“Listen to me, Reg,” Paul said quietly, the frost in his tone managed to quench enough of the fire raging in Reginald’s eyes. “We can fix this... in a way. If the will never gets changed, if the truth never gets out, then it’s not really true, and we get to maintain what we have here, right?”

“I... I suppose,” Reginald said. Paul Kijumbe could see that he had his work cut out for him. At the beginning, he hadn’t been too sure about taking a position of valet to a second son. The prestige was certainly not comparable to that of an earl’s valet. But his years in service to Lord Sutton, a merchant aristocrat, was below his station. Any member of the peerage, even a second son, was a huge leap upward in Paul’s estimation and he’d taken the job. From the first day, he’d had to clean up after Reginald. Showing women out of the house through the servant’s exits and even paying off a maid he’d accidentally gotten pregnant. All those things had ensured that Reginald became more and more indebted to Paul... and Paul enjoyed being in that enviable position most of all. Even now, Reginald had come to him for a solution to the latest debacle; as it turned out, he was a servant in a house overrun by bastards.

“So, if we don’t want the truth to get out, or your situation to be altered at all, all we have to do is take care of Roger, right?” Kijumbe asked.

The truth of it was no action was necessary. Roger had agreed to keep things exactly as they were; Reginald would continue to receive a salary from the estate’s earnings for his lifetime, but he wouldn’t inherit. That hadn’t stopped Reginald’s pride from being hurt, after all; the whole point was having a shot at being Earl Galham.

Reginald’s being put aside by Roger was what stirred Paul into action. If Roger claimed Reginald couldn’t remain in the succession to the seat of Galham, then Reginald had every right to show his brother what for.

“I... I suppose,” Reginald said again. Kijumbe rubbed his face. Stirring Reginald up was clearly going to be a task. It was important that Reginald feel as strongly about the matter as Paul did if the plan was going to work.

“So how do we make them disappear, Reginald?” Kijumbe asked tersely, hoping his frustration did not show through his voice. No wonder Roger had passed Reginald over, he was such a coward!

“Well, we could...” Reginald started, but then he paused to think a bit harder. “We could make sure they don’t tell anyone else about my legitimacy,” Reginald added, with a mischievous look in his eye.

“Exactly,” Kijumbe said. “We make sure that he doesn’t tell anyone, and we make sure that his will never gets made public. At least, not the one cutting us… I mean you, out.”

“Exactly,” Reginald said. “So how do we get the bugger?”

“I have a plan for that,” Kijumbe said. “I’ll make sure that the will never goes public. I’ve got a man who’s aces at forging signatures. He owes me an enormous debt; he’ll be able to fix up anything you need. We already know that a will has been submitted to the solicitors, but that doesn’t mean it’s a final one. People change their wills all the time. They have two people witness it and it’s legal. When the solicitors call for the last will and testament, I’ll send out the copy we have and all the signatures will pass their inspection, I promise.”

“That’s good. That’s really good,” Reginald said.

“So what will you do now?” Kijumbe asked him.

“Well... I’ll take care of Roger. That’ll be no problem at all,” Reginald said.

“And the others too,” Kijumbe responded.

“Yes. All of them.”

“Good. How do you think you’ll do it?”

“I can sneak in during the middle of the night and smother them in their sleep. I’ll burn the damn house to the ground with them in it if I have to! That’ll make it look enough like an accident,” Reginald replied.

“When will you do it? We don’t want to botch this at all. It will end up looking suspicious,” Kijumbe said. “I can take care of the wills tomorrow. Can you have a plan ready to take care of your end in a couple of weeks?”

“Indeed, I think that will do it,” Reginald replied.

***

The next day, Kijumbe walked into the Coventry Garden part of the city to find his forger, Eli Cobbs. In his days as valet to Lord Sutton, Paul had met Eli when Lord Sutton had bailed him out of a Surrey jail in exchange for Cobbs forging several Bills of Laden for him.

The man had somehow managed to get himself a position in a notary’s office, most likely with the use of false references. Paul was a little intimidated by the opulent office space but, dressed in his valet’s uniform and the livery of the house, he felt a little more at ease and not at all out of place. Furthermore, he was sure the man he was going to see would be able to help them with Roger’s will. He walked in and greeted the receptionist.

“I’m here to see Mr. Cobbs, please.”

The woman did not give Paul so much as a second look and the man was relieved for it. Shortly after she called for him, Cobbs emerged from the rear of the office.

“Cobbs! How are you mate?” he asked jovially.

“Doin’ well Paul, just fine thank ye. What can I do ye for?” Cobbs replied.

“Well, hate to spoil such a lovely reunion and all, but I’m unfortunately here on some business. I was wonder’n, if ye can’t come to lunch with me at the pub so we can talk?” Kijumbe replied.

“Ah... sounds serious...” Cobbs replied slowly.

“As I said, it’s private and along the lines of our previous acquaintance,” Kijumbe answered, keeping a smile firmly on his face.

“Wait here,” Cobbs told Kijumbe, “I’ll just let the clerk know I’m taking off and we can leave.” When he re-emerged, Cobbs gestured to Paul to follow him. “C’mon with me this way.”

They went a short distance down the road to a local place where the workers in the area often had their tea and luncheon. Paul thought it best he pay for the man’s meal to ease the weight of the situation he was about to put him in. So over a hearty meal of lamb stew and brown bread, washed down with cool ale, Paul made his request to Cobbs and the forger was more than happy to oblige him. Paul handed him the original and a list of changes that he needed to be made to the document. Cobbs looked over the list carefully.

“So when can you get it done already?” Kijumbe asked Cobbs as they made their way to the exit of the pub.

“I just needed to confirm a few things,” Cobbs replied happily. “But I don’t think it’ll be longer than a week.”

“Of course, of course,” Paul replied. “How about lunch again then? Next week Friday will give you a week and a half.”

“Certainly we can do that. You know where to find me!” Cobbs said.

“I do. See you then.”

Cobbs made to respond to the man but Kijumbe was already stepping across the street.

***

Two weeks later, Reginald was outside Galham House waiting patiently.

Finally, he heard the church bells in the distance chime midnight. He made his way silently through the groundsman’s shack and out onto the lawn. There was no light for him to move by but that did not bother him, he knew the gardens well enough. As a precaution, he proceeded slowly anyway, and finally made his way to the side door of the kitchen. He opened it silently.

Once in the kitchen, managing the crowded room proved to be a challenge... and he did not even have the pale light of the stars to guide him. He made his way slowly and carefully to the main dining room and then into the hall. As he was taking his first step toward the staircase, he transferred his weight from his left foot to his right, and felt the board groan under his weight. His heart raced and he felt the first beads of sweat form on his brow. He was no professional at this but a baser instinct took hold. He paused there, waiting for any sign of movement or alertness from the rooms above. Hearing none, he softly exhaled, not even realize he had been holding his breath.

He continued up the stairs, testing each one before sliding his foot parallel with the step to transfer his weight, thus allowing him to determine whether or not it would creak. At the top of the stairs, he crouched again in darkness, waiting to see if anyone was moving about. Once Reginald determined that he was still passing through unnoticed, he made his way to the bedroom where he knew his brother Roger and his wife Mary were sleeping.

He was rather surprised to find that the door had been left ajar but after a pause to ascertain if either Roger or Lady Mary were about the halls, he went in. He slipped in silently and ghosted his way over to the bed and swiftly administered the chloroform to Roger, but rather than waiting for it to take effect, he immediately grabbed a pillow and placed it over Roger’s mouth. Roger’s breathing became fitful but he did not wake up. His wife, on the other hand, became a problem as she heard her husband gasping against the pillow.

“What in the world is going on?” she asked sleepily. “Reginald? What are you doing here?”

Reginald launched himself onto the bed in an attempt to restrain his sister-in-law, but she fended him off. She struggled against him a while longer and managed to land a punch to his face. He felt something crack near his eye. She gave a muffled cry of pain. Reginald was fairly certain she had broken something in her hand from the impact.

He grabbed her wrist, forcing her hand back toward her head. She yowled and screamed against him, but he finally managed to hold the damp rag over her mouth and nose long enough for her to pass out. He backed off to a corner of the room and waited.

After he was convinced that the drug had taken effect on both his victims, Reginald approached the bed again. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the bottle of poison he had brought with him. With a dropper, he administered ten drops of nightshade orally to Lady Mary... and her body immediately began to convulse. Once he was sure that she was dead, Reginald went to the other side of the bed, threw the limp body of his brother over his shoulder and exited the room.

He left Roger by the upstairs banisters and entered the children’s nursery. Neither of the sleeping figures stood a chance of survival. Reginald’s knife flicked out quickly and sliced. The boy grabbed at his throat but was unable to cry out because the knife had bitten so deep it severed his vocal cords. Reginald grabbed the younger child and made quick work of him as well. He left the children where they fell, then went back down to the groundkeeper’s for a long length of rope.

For a brief moment as he walked across the lawn, Reginald wondered why he felt nothing toward sister-in-law and his nephews as he had so heartlessly taken their lives, but just as quickly, he reminded himself that his legacy was what was at stake. He wouldn’t be made to pay for his mother’s conniving indiscretions and lies; it wasn’t his fault he wasn’t Earl Galham’s son. He would end Roger’s craven vendetta against him for good and then there would be no one left to treat him like a useless hanger-on.