Sherlock Holmes and The Other Woman (3 page)

“I believe this is a pretty settled district. Do you get many newcomers here?”

“To live, you mean? Now and then, I suppose, although not so many in the past year or so.”

“Who are the newest neighbours in the Square?”

“Well, there's an African man moved in around Christmas. He's just a few doors down.”

“Anyone else?”

She thought for a moment. “There's more transition in the Crescent. Artists and people of that sort. I don't know them, I'm afraid. The only one I know of is a widow woman. I see her walking in the square sometimes.”

“How well do you know the rest of your neighbours?”

“I know most of the people on this side of the square. We visit each other from time to time but we are all very busy people.”

“I assume they are good enough neighbours who would tell you if they saw someone prowling around the house?”

“Certainly. Good heavens, Mr Holmes, do you really think that is the case?”

“Holmes is merely exploring all the possibilities, Mrs Prentiss,” Watson said.

“Yes, of course,” I said, taking my cue. “I must have all the facts if I am to get to the bottom of this matter.”

My client looked sceptical. “Come, Mr Holmes, I am not a child. I do not need to be protected from the truth. You have a theory about this situation, I can tell.”

“I have formed six theories so far,” I said. “But I must investigate further before I can come to any conclusions. I must ask you to be patient a little longer, Mrs Prentiss. I am confident we shall resolve this matter.”

“I know my children and I are in safe hands. You may be sure of my complete cooperation, Mr Holmes.”

“Excellent,” I said. “I have only a few more questions. Do you have any valuables on the premises?”

“Some jewellery but nothing of any great value. There are other people in the Square who are far wealthier than we.”

“Quite. Tell me about your work. I know you translate documents. What is their nature?”

“It varies. Sometimes I translate letters for private individuals. The bulk of my work is for Brahms Antiquities. They deal in
objets d'art
, acquiring and selling. They also authenticate rare and valuable artefacts.”

“Yes, I am familiar with their reputation,” I said. “Mr Brahms is renowned in the field of antiquities. But I interrupted you. Pray continue.”

“Most of the documents I receive are queries about pieces that would-be sellers hope the company will authenticate or sell. Now and then, I am required to translate a response to a client. These tend to be in Russian or Greek.”

“Why those languages in particular?”

“Because the company has standard documents to address queries in French, German, and Italian.”

“A form reply, you mean?”

“Yes, exactly.”

There was a sound of laughter from the back of the house. I could hear a young woman's voice and a boy's.

“My son Peter and Connie. She's very good with the children but she does get a bit noisy sometimes.”

Mrs Prentiss rose and went to the door. “Peter, have you finished your verbs?”

There was a muffled response and silence resumed.

“I can see why you work late at night,” Watson said, sympathetically. “It must be difficult to stay up late after a long day.”

“It is,” she replied. “But I enjoy it. I like being able to use my brain.”

I suspected the additional income was welcome, too. Even with an inheritance, this house must be costly to run, a stretch for a railwayman.

“You were saying there are standard documents in French, German, and Italian. I assume there is none such for Russian or Greek?”

“No. The cost of typesetting would be considerable because of the different alphabets, you see, and these queries are infrequent, no more than two or three a year. It's cheaper to have me translate them.”

“And the documents are always related to art works?”

“The great bulk of them, yes. Now and then if the correspondent is acquainted with Mr Brahms or has conducted business with him before there may be the odd personal comment. ‘I hope you're feeling better' sort of thing.”

“I see. Now, when you work on your translations, which room do you use?”

“This one, the study. I keep all my papers in here and it is one place I can be sure the children will never come.”

“Because?”

“Because I always keep the room locked.”

“And the window too?”

“Yes.”

“And you use the gaslight when you are working?”

“I prefer the table lamp. It is less expensive and I only need to throw light on the papers I am working on. I find it focuses my attention, too. There is plenty of ambient light from the streetlamp outside.”

I rose and went to the window and examined it. The lock was a standard bolt. The heavy velvet drapes were purely decorative.

“You have a charming view of the park,” I said. “And you have no sense of being overlooked, though you have houses all around you.”

“No, indeed,” she agreed, “particularly not during the summer when the trees are full of foliage. It's really only at this time of year that I even notice the buildings on the other side of the park.”

“Quite. Now, when you are working, do you ever leave this room for any period of time?”

“Yes, but never for more than a few minutes. Sometimes I will go into the kitchen and make some coffee if I am tired. Now and then I check on the children but I'm seldom gone more than a few minutes.”

“And do you lock the study door behind you when you leave the room for these brief periods?”

“No, of course not.”

“Ha! Tell me, Mrs Prentiss, with all the strange things that have happened in the house, have you ever noticed anything moved from this study?”

“No, never.”

I clapped my hands. “Thank you,” I said. “Now, with your permission, I would like to examine the house.”

Chapter Three

Before I began my examination of the house, I scrutinised the door to the study. The mortise lock was standard. There were a great many fine scratches on the metal, some of which were at least a week old. The chalky brown substance that filled the grooves was fresh.

“Your maids polish the brasses how often?”

“Every Monday and Thursday.”

“May I ask you to lock the door?”

She gave me a puzzled look and did as I asked. The key slid easily into the lock and turned.

“You see, Watson,” I said. “Mrs Prentiss is so well used to performing this action she does not have to think about it. I imagine you could easily secure this door in the dark and have no difficulty finding the lock?”

“No difficulty at all,” the woman replied.

We followed our hostess up the stairs to the top of the house. The servants' room was under the eaves. It was clean, pleasant, and bright, even in the fading light. The two big windows overlook the tidy back garden and the house that abuts the Prentisses' home to the rear.

There is a rag-rug on the floor, floral curtains, a desk, a wardrobe, and a chest of drawers. The two narrow beds have a folding screen between them to allow for some measure of privacy.

“This is charming,” Watson said. “Your servants are very fortunate, Mrs Prentiss, to have such a welcoming room.”

“They're good girls, both of them, and have been with me a long time. This is their home after all and I want them to be comfortable.”

“Quite. I understand the younger of the maids has recently become, ah, attached to a young man?”

“Connie. Yes, she met him one night a few weeks ago.”

“What is he like? Have you met him?”

“No, I haven't, though I have inquired, of course. Connie says he's a gentleman from South America.”

“You sound sceptical,” Watson said.

“Do I? I suppose I am rather. Connie's a bit flighty and given to nerves but she has a good heart. Unfortunately she's not... well, not to put too fine a point on it, she's not exactly comely. I am responsible for her and I wouldn't like anyone to take advantage of her good nature.”

“Or take advantage in any other sort of way,” Watson said.

“Precisely. Not that there's much fear of that. I don't have many rules, but gentlemen callers are forbidden and the girls must be in their beds by nine o'clock.”

We made our way systematically through the house but found nothing remarkable in any of the rooms. Everything was clean and well-ordered.

The ground floor proved more interesting. There was a long narrow hallway with the study and the breakfast room in the front, overlooking the so-called square; there was a comfortable sitting room, not large but well appointed; a good-sized dining room; a walk-in pantry; an airing room, and the kitchen.

The two maids were busy but glanced at us curiously. Agnes, who had admitted us to the house, was at the stove. The younger woman, Connie, was setting the table in the dining room.

At the end of the hallway was the door to the garden.

“No, there's no need to follow me,” I said to our hostess. “Please stay where it is warm and dry, Mrs Prentiss, we shall not be long.”

Watson and I pulled up our collars and stepped out into the drizzle.

“What are your impressions, Watson?” I said.

“A pretty garden, if a bit small. Overlooked by the other houses not only on either side but at the rear as well.”

“Precisely.”

“Mrs Prentiss,” I called. She came to the door. I said, “I beg you do not get wet. Can you tell us where the missing bell was found?”

“Over there to your right, Mr Holmes.”

I went where she indicated. “Here?” I said, “By the cellar window?”

“Yes, that's right. Agnes found it.”

We continued to work systematically around the garden.

“Matchsticks... you see here, Watson? This one is a day old; these two are older still...”

“Yes?”

“These are suggestive, are they not? Yes... I can think of four possible explanations. Let us go and see what the basement has to tell us.”

Back in the warm, dry house I said softly, “Mrs Prentiss, can you find some task to occupy your younger maid upstairs?”

She looked puzzled but complied at once. “Connie,” she said. “Would you be so good as to sort the laundry for tomorrow morning?”

“Now, Mrs Prentiss? I'm just setting the table.”

“Now, if you please.”

With a scowl, the unhandsome girl left the dining room and clomped up the stairs.

“Excellent,” I said. “Now, can you show me the cellar?”

Mrs Prentiss opened the door that led down into the dark, unwelcoming area beneath the building. The smell of dankness was repellent.

“Do you use it at all?” I asked.

“No, never. It is a most unpleasant place, and none of us likes to go down. We do not even use it to store coal.”

“Does anyone ever go down there?”

“I did, that night I first heard the scratching. I thought we had rats. Agnes is the only one who is not bothered by the place. She goes down from time to time. She hides the children's Christmas and birthday gifts down there because she knows it's the last place any of them will go.”

She spoke softly with an eye on the parlour where the children were occupied with their schoolwork.

“What of your younger maid?”

“Connie? No, she's a very superstitious sort, I'm afraid. These recent events have all but convinced her that the house is haunted.”

“But you do not think so?” Watson asked.

“I do not believe in such things,” she replied.

“I wonder if we may trouble you for a lamp or a candle,” I said. “I assume there is no gas laid on in that part of the house?”

“No, there is not. I shall fetch a lantern.”

Thus armed with a serviceable railwayman's lamp, Watson and I made our way down the steep, old steps into the cellar. Watson pulled his scarf up over his nose and mouth. “It really is a most unwholesome atmosphere down here, Holmes,” he said.

“You need not come with me, you know,” I pointed out. “I can certainly examine the area on my own.”

“Will my presence assist you?”

“Always.”

He said no more but continued to follow me down the steps, just as I knew he would. I know my Watson!

“Take the lamp, if you'd be so kind, my dear fellow,” I said. “And direct the light upon the floor.”

I knelt down and examined the ground carefully. Then, taking care of my clothing - the floor was covered with the most fetid sort of mould - I tracked back to the corner.

“Shine the light up here, if you please.”

The thin greenish beam picked out the window that sat at street level. It was about a six inches above my head. There was an old chair immediately under this window and after a quick examination of it and the floor beneath, I climbed up and took a closer look.

“This glass was changed recently,” I said. “The putty is fresh, and there are still shards on the floor. Yes... You see the scuff marks upon the wall? It all fits. Well, almost all.”

“So this is how our ‘poltergeist' has been getting into the house,” Watson said, following my reasoning.

“He is a tall man, our nightly visitor. Slender, too. It cannot be easy to get through that window, particularly in the dark. His first attempt was clumsy, I surmise, and he broke the glass.”

“Thoughtful of him to fix it,” Watson said. He was shivering with cold and his words stuttered.

“Almost done, old man,” I said, taking the lamp from his freezing hands. “Thoughtful? No, I suspect he was merely trying to avoid drawing attention to his activities. The chair shows his footprint clearly. He has used it to facilitate his climb. I could not climb in and out without some effort, though I suppose it is easier with practice.”

I shone the lantern around the room and examined it.

“That cupboard over there must be where the broom was discovered. Yes, a grown man could easily hide in here.”

“Hide?”

“Mrs Prentiss came down here, remember? She was looking for rats, not a grown man. I doubt her examination was more than cursory.”

Watson said, “Thank goodness she did not discover him or who knows what might have happened. What have you learned about this villain, Holmes?”

“Well,” I said, “he is tall, as I already observed. I should put his height at around six foot three or four. He is right-handed, forgetful, has a gentleman's education, is possibly of Nordic descent, and he is not a smoker.”

“I should be used to these analyses by now, Holmes, but I admit I still find them astounding. I follow your reasoning regarding the height, and I suppose you can determine which hand is dominant by the way he fixed the window, but the rest? How do you deduce he is forgetful?”

“Because he twice knocked his head on the low beam. See here.” I directed the lantern's beam at the marks that were clearly visible on the wood. “Any tall man might bang his head once, but to do so twice in almost exactly the same spot demonstrates forgetfulness.”

“Or preoccupation with something else,” Watson pointed out. “How do you determine he is not good with his hands?”

“Because of the shoddy job he did with the window repair. It is really very badly done. Even a schoolboy could do better. This also suggests he had a gentleman's education: most working-class boys learn pragmatic skills such as rudimentary repair work. Their fathers or brothers teach them. It is only the gentleman who is so ham-fisted.

“Also, on the ceiling beam where he bashed his head I find two hairs...” I showed them to him.

“Very fair,” Watson said. “So you guess he's Nordic.”

“Guess? Watson, you know me better than that. But yes, these hairs lead me to conclude that the fellow may have some Nordic blood.”

“Hmm, yes, I see. I'm not sure how any of this helps us find him, but at least it will help us recognise him when we do. Oh, wait, how to you know he does not smoke? We saw matches outside. Doesn't that suggest he is a smoker?”

“Yes, we did, and when we examined the garden I thought perhaps he lit a cigarette before climbing down here, but if you recall we found no butts or tobacco, not outside and not in here. You can clearly see the marks on the floor where the man paced, no doubt waiting for all the family to go to bed. A smoker would have lit his cigarette or pipe.”

“Not all smokers suffer your degree of addiction, Holmes.”

“Ha! That is a good point, Watson. Still, I think you'd agree a man would need some sort of comfort standing in a place like this in the middle of the night. It could make even a non-smoker take up the habit.”

“That's certainly true.” He looked around with distaste and shuddered. “All the same, Holmes, it's a serious enough business that a man is breaking into this house with some frequency.”

“It is, indeed.”

We reconvened in the study and I asked to speak with the servants. Agnes, as the senior, came in first. She bobbed slightly and took the seat as I directed her, then with her hands folded on her lap answered all my questions.

“Your full name, if you please?”

“Agnes Mary Dearing, sir.”

“You need not be concerned,” Watson said gently. “We're just trying to get to the bottom of this strange business.”

“I understand, sir. It's very distressing, especially for the children.”

“You have been with Mrs Prentiss for how long, Agnes?”

“A little over twelve years, sir. She kept me on when she first moved into this house. I was with her aunt, Miss Gillespie, for eight years before her death, poor woman. I've been with Mrs Prentiss ever since.”

“She is a good mistress, I take it.”

“The best there ever was and no mistake. She doesn't treat me and Connie like servants, not like some. She sends us to bed at a Christian hour while she stays up and does her work, though I'd gladly stay up with her. She calls for the doctor when we get sick and she makes sure we have as much time off as we need. When my mother was ill a year ago, Mrs Prentiss paid for a train ticket herself so I could go and visit. I ended having to stay a month, but there was never any question my job was waiting for me when I returned. Not many mistresses would be half as accommodating.”

“No, indeed,” Watson said. “You are very fortunate. Does Connie share your high opinion of Mrs Prentiss?”

“Indeed she does, sir. But, there, I can't imagine where she'd find herself so well off.”

Something in the woman's manner belied her words. There was a defensiveness in her demeanour that was at odds with the rest of her testimony. I said, “Perhaps Connie doesn't care for service as well as you do, Agnes?”

“Well, there's no denying that, Mr Holmes. I don't know what's happening to the young people nowadays. When I started out as a twelve-year-old for the late Mr and Mrs Chandler I was just glad to have a wage and a roof over my head. There are far worse ways for a woman to earn a living.”

“That is true,” Watson said. “It can be exceedingly difficult for a single woman to support herself.”

“The Chandlers were good people, I must say, but always ready to point out the difference in rank between them and the servants. Mrs Prentiss never makes such a distinction... Though I flatter myself I know my place.”

“I suppose,” I said, “Connie doesn't have your range of experience to know how well off she is?”

“That's a fact, Mr Holmes.” She leaned forward and expounded on a theme she had, I thought, given a great many thoughts and, probably, words to. “She's never worked for anyone else. She came to Mrs Prentiss when she was fourteen and she has no idea how hard it can be for servants in other houses. I could tell you stories, indeed I could. But no, she thinks she's too good to wait upon a fine family. Miss Constance Kidwell, Lady Muck.”