The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (37 page)

Mrs Beck was a plump, pink woman in plain prints and a starched pinafore, with humorous eyes and a slight pursing of the mouth which suggested a conflict between a natural warmth and a slightly censorious temperament. Indeed, this is exactly what we discovered. She had known both Sir Geoffrey and Mrs Gallibasta. She had been on good terms with a number of the servants, she said, although one by one they had left and had not been replaced.

“There was talk, gentlemen, that the poor gentleman was next to destitute and couldn’t afford new servants. But he was never behind with the wages and those who worked for him were loyal enough. Especially his housekeeper. She had an odd, distant sort of air, but there’s no question she looked after him well and since his prospects were already known, she didn’t seem to be hanging around waiting for his money.”

“Yet you were not fond of the woman?” murmured Holmes, his eyes studying an advertisement for toffee.

“I will admit that I found her a little strange, sir. She was a foreign woman, Spanish I think. It wasn’t her gypsy looks that bothered me, but I never could get on with her. She was always very polite and pleasant in her conversation. I saw her almost every day, too – though never in church. She’d come in here to pick up whatever small necessities they needed. She always paid cash and never asked for credit. Though I had no love for her, it seemed that she was supporting Sir Geoffrey, not the other way around. Some said she had a temper to her and that once she had taken a rake to an under-footman, but I saw no evidence of it. She’d spend a few minutes chatting with me, sometimes purchase a newspaper, collect whatever mail there was and walk back up the lane to the manor. Rain or shine, sir, she’d be here. A big, healthy woman she was. She’d joke about what a handful it all was, him and the estate, but she didn’t seem to mind. I only knew one odd thing about her. When she was sick, no matter how sick she became, she always refused a doctor. She had a blind terror of the medical profession, sir. The very suggestion of calling Doctor Shapiro would send her into screaming insistence that she needed no ‘sawbones’. Otherwise, she was what Sir Geoffrey needed, him being so gentle and strange and with his head in the clouds. He was like that since a boy.”

“But given to irrational fears and notions, I gather?”

“Not so far as I ever observed, sir. He never seemed to change. She was the funny one. Though he stayed at the house for the past several years and I only saw him occasionally. But when I did he was his usual sunny self.”

“That’s most interesting, Mrs Beck. I am grateful to you. I think I will have a quarter-pound of your best bullseyes, if you please. Oh, I forgot to ask. Do you remember Sir Geoffrey receiving any letters from America?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Frequently. He looked forward to them, she said. I remember the envelope and the stamps. It was almost his only regular correspondent.”

“And Sir Geoffrey sent his replies from here?”

“I wouldn’t know that, sir. The mail’s collected from a pillar-box near the station. You’ll see it, if you’re going back that way.”

“Mrs Gallibasta, I believe, has left the neighbourhood.”

“Not two weeks since, sir. My son carried her boxes to the station for her. She took all her things. He mentioned how heavy her luggage was. He said if he hadn’t attended Sir Geoffrey’s service at St James’s himself he’d have thought she had him in her trunk. If you’ll pardon the levity, sir.”

“I am greatly obliged to you, Mrs Beck.” The detective lifted his hat and bowed. I recognized Holmes’s brisk, excited mood. He was on a trail now and had scented some form of quarry. As we left, he murmured: “I must go round to 22lb as soon as we get back and look in my early files.”

As I drove the dog-cart-back to the station, Holmes scarcely spoke a further word. He was lost in thought all the way back to London. I was used to my friend’s moods and habits and was content to let that brilliant mind exercise itself while I gave myself up to the world’s concerns in the morning’s
Telegraph.

Mr Macklesworth joined us for tea that afternoon. Mrs Ackroyd had outdone herself with smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches, small savouries, scones and cakes. The tea was my favourite Darjeeling, whose delicate flavour is best appreciated at that time in the afternoon, and even Holmes remarked that we might be guests at Sinclair’s or the Grosvenor.

Our ritual was overseen by the splendid Fellini Silver which, perhaps to catch the best of the light, Holmes had placed in our sitting-room window, looking out to the street. It was as if we ate our tea in the presence of an angel. Mr Mackelsworth balanced his plate on his knee wearing an expression of delight. “I have heard of this ceremony, gentlemen, but never expected to be taking part in a High Tea with Mr Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson!”

“Indeed, you are doing no such thing, sir,” Holmes said gently. “It is a common misconception, I gather, among our American cousins that High- and Afternoon- tea are the same thing. They are very different meals, taken at quite different times. High Tea was in my day only eaten at certain seats of learning, and was a hot, early supper. The same kind of supper, served in a nursery, has of late been known as High Tea. Afternoon-tea, which consists of a conventional cold sandwich selection, sometimes with scones, clotted cream and strawberry jam, is eaten by adults, generally at four o’clock. High Tea, by and large, is eaten by children at six o’clock. The sausage was always very evident at such meals when I was young.” Holmes appeared to shudder subtly.

“I stand corrected and instructed, sir,” said the Texan jovially, and waved a delicate sandwich by way of emphasis. Whereupon all three of us broke into laughter – Holmes at his own pedantry and Mr Macklesworth almost by way of relief from the weighty matters on his mind.

“Did you discover any clues to the mystery in High Cogges?” our guest wished to know.

“Oh, indeed, Mr Macklesworth,” said Holmes, “I have one or two things to verify, but think the case is solved.” He chuckled again, this time at the expression of delighted astonishment on the American’s face.

“Solved, Mr Holmes?”

“Solved, Mr Macklesworth, but not proven. Doctor Watson, as usual, contributed greatly to my deductions. It was you, Watson, who suggested the motive for involving this gentleman in what, I believe, was a frightful and utterly cold-blooded crime.”

“So I was right, Mr Holmes! Sir Geoffrey was murdered!”

“Murdered or driven to self-murder, Mr Macklesworth, it is scarcely material.”

“You know the culprit, sir?

“I believe I do. Pray, Mr Mackleworth,” now Holmes pulled a piece of yellowed paper from an inner pocket, “would you look at this? I took it from my files on the way here and apologize for its somewhat dusty condition.”

Frowning slightly, the Texan accepted the folded paper and then scratched his head in some puzzlement, reading aloud. “My dear Holmes, Thank you so much for your generous assistance in the recent business concerning my young painter friend … Needless to say, I remain permanently in your debt. Yours very sincerely …” He looked up in some confusion. “The notepaper is unfamiliar to me, Mr Holmes. Doubtless the Athenaeum is one of your clubs. But the signature is false.”

“I had an idea you might determine that, sir,” said Holmes, taking the paper from our guest. Far from being discommoded by the information, he seemed satisfied by it. I wondered how far back the roots of this crime were to be found. “Now, before I explain further, I feel a need to demonstrate something. I wonder if you would be good enough to write a note to Mrs Gallibasta in Willesden. I would like you to tell her that you have changed your mind about returning to the United States and have decided to live in England for a time. Meanwhile, you intend to place the Fellini Silver in a bank vault until you go back to the United States, whereupon you are considering taking legal advice as to what to do with the statue.”

“If I did that, Mr Holmes, I would not be honouring my vow to my cousin. And I would be telling a lie to a lady.”

“Believe me, Mr Mackelsworth if I assure you, with all emphasis, that you will not be breaking a promise to your cousin and you will not be telling a lie to a lady. Indeed, you will be doing Sir Geoffrey Mackelsworth and, I hope, both our great nations, an important service if you follow my instructions.”

“Very well, Mr Holmes,” said Macklesworth, firming his jaw and adopting a serious expression, “if that’s your word, I’m ready to go along with whatever you ask.”

“Good man, Mackelsworth!” Sherlock Holmes’s lips were drawn back a little from his teeth, rather like a wolf which sees its prey finally become vulnerable. “By the by, have you ever heard in your country of a creature known as ‘Little Peter’ or sometimes ‘French Pete’?”

“Certainly I have. He was a popular subject in the sensational press and remains so to this day. He operated out of New Orleans about a decade ago. Jean ‘Petit Pierre’ Fromental. An entertainer of some sort. He was part Arcadian and, some said, part Cree. A powerful, handsome man. He was famous for a series of particularly vicious murders of well-known dignitaries in the private rooms of those establishments for which Picayune is famous. A woman accomplice was also involved. She was said to have lured the men to their deaths. Fromental was captured eventually but the woman was never arrested. Some believe it was she who helped him escape when he did. As I remember, Mr Holmes, Fromental was never caught. Was there not some evidence that he, in turn, had been murdered by a woman? Do you think Fromental and Sir Geoffrey were both victims of the same murderess?”

“In a sense, Mr Mackelsworth. As I said, I am reluctant to give you my whole theory until I have put some of it to the test. But none of this is the work of a woman, that I can assure you. Will you do as I say?”

“Count on me, Mr Holmes. I will compose the telegram now.”

When Mr Macklesworth had left our rooms, I turned to Holmes, hoping for a little further illumination, but he was nursing his solution to him as if it were a favourite child. The expression on his face was extremely irritating to me. “Come, Holmes, this won’t do! You say I helped solve the problem, yet you’ll give me no hint as to the solution. Mrs Gallibasta is not the murderess, yet you say a murder is most likely involved. My theory – that Sir Geoffrey had the Silver spirited away and then killed himself so that he would not be committing a crime, as he would if he had been bankrupted – seems to confirm this. His handwriting has identified him as the author of letters claiming Mr Macklesworth as a relative – Macklesworth had nothing to do with that – and then suddenly you speak of some Louisiana desperado known as ‘Little Pierre’, who seems to be your main suspect until Mr Macklesworth revealed that he was dead.”

“I agree with you, Watson, that it seems very confusing. I hope for illumination tonight. Do you have your revolver with you, old friend?”

“I am not in the habit of carrying a gun about, Holmes.”

At this, Sherlock Holmes crossed the room and produced a large shoe-box which he had also brought from 22lb that afternoon. From it he produced two modern Webley revolvers and a box of ammunition. “We may need these to defend our lives, Watson. We are dealing with a master criminal intelligence. An intelligence both patient and calculating, who has planned this crime over many years and now believes there is some chance of being thwarted.”

“You think Mrs Gallibasta is in league with him and will warn him when the telegram arrives?”

“Let us just say, Watson, that we must expect a visitor tonight. That is why the Fellini Silver stands in our window, to be recognized by anyone who is familiar with it.”

I told my friend that at my age and station I was losing patience for this kind of charade, but reluctantly I agreed to position myself where he instructed and, taking a firm grip on my revolver, settled down for the night.

The night was almost as sultry as the day and I was beginning to wish that I had availed myself of lighter clothing and a glass of water when I heard a strange, scraping noise from somewhere in the street and risked a glance down from where I stood behind the curtain. I was astonished to see a figure, careless of any observer, yet fully visible in the yellow light of the lamps, climbing rapidly up the wisteria vine!

Within seconds the man – for man it was, and a gigantic individual, at that – had slipped a knife from his belt and was opening the catch on the window in which the Fellini Silver still sat. It was all I could do to hold my position. I feared the fellow would grasp the statue and take it out with him. But then common sense told me that, unless he planned to lower it from the window, he must come in and attempt to leave by the stairs.

The audacious burglar remained careless of onlookers, as if his goal so filled his mind that he was oblivious to all other considerations. I caught a glimpse of his features in the lamp-light. He had thick, wavy hair tied back in a bandanna, a couple of day’s stubble on his chin and dark, almost negroid skin I guessed at once that he was a relative of Mrs Gallibasta.

Then he had snapped back the catch of the window and I heard his breath hissing from his lips as he raised the sash and slipped inside.

The next moment Holmes emerged from his hiding place and levelled the revolver at the man who turned with the blazing eyes of a trapped beast, knife in hand, seeking escape.

“There is a loaded revolver levelled at your head, man,” said Holmes evenly, “and you would be wise to drop that knife and give yourself up!”

With a wordless snarl, the intruder flung himself towards the Silver, placing it between himself and our guns. “Shoot if you dare!” he cried. “You will be destroying more than my unworthy life! You will be destroying everything you have conspired to preserve! I underestimated you, Macklesworth. I thought you were an easy dupe – dazzled by the notion of being related to a knight of the realm, with whom you had an intimate correspondence! I worked for years to discover everything I could about you. You seemed perfect. You were willing to do anything, so long as it was described as a matter of family honour. Oh, how I planned! How I held myself in check! How patient I was. How noble in all my deeds! All so that I would one day own not merely that fool Geoffrey’s money, but also his most prized treasure! I had his love – but I wanted everything else besides!”