“To get rid of his wife.”
“And of him, I suspect. His wife would inherit everything he had. And his real wife had no connections. A few forged documents would be enough.”
The girl at the window caressed the curtains, almost unconsciously.
“I wouldn’t let anyone hurt him.”
“No?”
“I just wanted to live here with him.”
Holmes asked her, slowly, “Did you know him as a child?”
“Yes. But he was kept away from the village children. We spoke twice…but he didn’t really see me.”
“So… You cared for him.”
The girl grasped the curtains.
“Mr. Holmes, I made these curtains. I bought seeds in the village. Next spring, even before spring, there will be crocus and daffodils under these windows. White and yellow flowers.”
“You just wanted to live here with him,” repeated Holmes.
“As long as I can remember, I never wanted anything else.”
I looked at Mason. And what I saw in his eyes was more terrible than anything that had happened or could happen afterwards.
Danvers was following the scene, as if he were just an observer. Mrs. Danvers was the one who spoke, and her voice was firm.
“My daughter didn’t do anything but give a false name. We were the ones who kidnapped Mrs. Mason.”
“Is that relief I detect in your voice, Mrs. Danvers?”
She shrugged.
“Relief…tiredness.”
“I know. The weak point of your plan was not its implausibility. It was the fact that you didn’t have it in you. You are not murderers.”
The bell rang. Mrs. Danvers got up instinctively but sat down again.
“You can go open the door, Mrs. Danvers. It’s Inspector Lestrade and the police from the village. You will go with them.”
“Yes.”
“May I change, Mr. Holmes?” asked the girl. “This dress seems somehow inappropriate.”
She came back a few minutes later, wearing a grey dress and with her hair caught in the back. She barely looked at us. She smiled at her mother, as if to comfort her. A real lady, I thought. Why didn’t that idiot notice her when she was a very young girl in the village?
The police and the Danvers left the house without any drama. And suddenly we found ourselves in a dark place. Yes, it was a matter of lighting.
“Your wife is at the village inn, Mason,” remarked Holmes. “She needed a good rest, but she is all right.”
Since there was no answer, he went on.
“She will want to see you.”
Mason nodded.
“Mr. Holmes,” he said. “What do you think will happen?”
“You will have two or three children. You will publish two or three books of poetry that no one will read and will bring you neither fame nor money. You will live.”
“Mr. Holmes…I don’t even know her name.”
John took the sheet of paper from the writing machine. He hesitated for a moment and, with a pencil, wrote “Alice” and underlined it. Then he put the sheet on top of the others.
The bottle of whisky was almost empty. There were signs that the night was over: a faint, very faint light, voices from the street.
He took another glass of whisky. It would be nice to have something to eat, but one can’t have everything.
He stood up and washed his face in the bathroom. The water was freezing. He looked at his face in the tarnished mirror and smiled ironically.
“I wonder if they will ever publish this.”
He put on his overcoat, his dark blue scarf. He went out and, for the first time, heard footsteps upstairs.
It felt good to see people in the street. It felt good to see that rising light behind the buildings. It felt good to touch a tree and emerge in a well-lit street. He made a sign to a cab that was just passing.
Twenty minutes later he was in front of a tall modern building. As usual, he didn’t wait for the elevator and ran upstairs. As usual, he didn’t use his key and rang the bell. A moment later she was opening the door in her peach negligée, her long hair cut short in front, a copper mess. Her blue eyes were sleepy, but she put her arms around his neck and whispered something. She didn’t smell like the rain. She smelt like oranges and wildflowers, and that was even better.
The Wargrave
Resurrection
By Matthew Booth
Over the years of my acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, I have seen a great number of illustrious clients in those Baker Street rooms which we shared, although it is also true that I have seen many members of the lower classes consult the eminent criminologist with whom I was associated. I think that I have remarked elsewhere that it was the peculiarity of the case upon which Holmes concentrated, to the extent that he would refuse to help those of the most exalted positions where the problem failed to engage his interest, whilst applying the most intense applications of his remarkable powers to the affairs of a humble parlourmaid, whose case appealed to his unique and capricious nature. It was one such client who called upon us early one brisk spring morning in the year 1888.
Recent months had been somewhat sterile with us, and I had begun to grow concerned at Holmes’s lack of activity. I knew well to what dark alternatives he could turn when his mind was not engaged and he merely sneered at those crimes which had been reported in the newspapers.
“What is the use of seeking a master’s views and opinions on the mere sketches of a schoolboy, Watson?” he would say.
“The last few months have not been entirely devoid of interest. We had the Keswick haunting and the madness of old Cranston.”
“One cannot live on one’s past glories alone.”
This was the Holmes with whom I was sharing rooms at the time. It was, then, with some relief that I ushered Mr. Henry Collins into our chamber, for I hoped that whatever storm had blown him to our door would blow away the dust of tedium which was settling on my friend. Collins was a small, ruddy-faced man, whose complexion was intensified by the stark whiteness of his hair and whiskers. He stared from one to the other of us with wild grey eyes, and it was evident to me that he was in the grip of some sort of great fear.
“There is no cause to be hesitant, sir,” said Holmes. “Perhaps my colleague here can get you some refreshment, for I observe that you are somewhat distressed.”
“If I am not too much of a trouble for it, sir,” said Collins. “A small whisky, if I may, for my nerves have had a terrible shock.”
I obliged the little man and handed him a measure, which he accepted gratefully as he sat back on the cushions with a small sigh of gratitude.
“I trust that you are now feeling a little more composed,” said Holmes. “Perhaps you would be able now to say clearly and concisely what has brought you here.”
“Henry Collins is what they call me, Mr. Holmes, and I have made my living in many trades over the years. With no formal education, I’ve had to take money where I could find it and in whatever way I could. But it is not a matter of my own personal circumstances which force me to trouble you, beyond the fact that one of my jobs a few years back was doing some building work at a publishing house in the city.
“You may have heard of the Wargrave Publishing Company, gentlemen. It was one of the biggest names in its field, well-respected by academic folk and well-liked by those who read for pleasure. It was run by Theodore Wargrave, a man who built the company up from scratch. He made it into one of the foremost producers of books and journals which this country has ever seen.
“Mr. Wargrave was married to a beautiful woman called Sophia, but there were no children. He was a very tidy man, always dressed in immaculate clothes, and from the one time I saw Mrs. Wargrave, it seemed to me that she shared her husband’s preference for beautiful and expensive things. I suppose when you
have made your own money, you don’t feel ashamed to show off the fact, but it’s not the way I look at life. As long as my belly is full and my mouth watered, I reckon I’m as lucky as I need to be.
“I left Wargrave Publishing as soon as the building job was done, for another opportunity had come my way by that time. That was four years hence, and I’ve only heard the name Wargrave on two occasions since. The first was when he sold his company for a huge sum of money. The second is more pertinent to my experience this morning.
“I am currently working down at the Victoria docks. To get there, I cut down the old Merchant Road in Whitechapel, saving a good ten minutes’ walk to the docks. If you know the area, you will know that there are several lodging houses down that particular road which offer modest rooms at what they might consider to be a reasonable price. This morning, I saw something outside one of those lodging houses which gave me such a start, I doubted my own senses.
“Walking toward me was a man who was in something of a hurry. He was muffled against the wind, but when he stopped outside one of the lodging houses and opened his coat to get his key, I saw something of his face. The man I saw walking into that grim tenement in Whitechapel was none other than Theodore Wargrave himself. You will better understand my confusion at seeing him, Mr. Holmes, when I tell you that three years ago Wargrave took a revolver and shot himself in the head.”
A heavy silence fell, and the three of us were like a painting of the scene, motionless and caught in time by the thrill of the matter. I was amazed and enthralled by the turn of events, but Holmes, who seemed immune to such amazement by years of overstimulation, retained the controlled and composed attitude of a specialist who sees a particularly sensitive and complicated experiment come to fruition.
“You are sure it was him?” he asked, keenly.
“Four years since I saw him last, but I am as sure as I can be.”
“How frequently did you see him during your tenure at his company?”
“Every other day, perhaps.”
“Is that sufficient for you to be certain of his face?”
Henry Collins looked at Sherlock Holmes with the defiant air of a man who is sure of his own mind. “I have seen a dead man walking the streets of London, Mr. Holmes, and I shan’t have my word doubted on it.”
Sherlock Holmes contemplated the older man for some long minutes before he spoke once more. “Quite so. It is a remarkable starting point for an enquiry in any event. What number lodging house was it?”
“Number 38.”
“Did you make any enquiry there?”
“I was too shaken to knock on that door.”
“What became of Mrs. Wargrave?”
“No clue, Mr. Holmes.”
“It is of no matter. I have at least seven means of tracing her without undue exertion. Well, this is a fascinating problem, Mr. Collins, and I shall be happy to look into it for you. I shall advise you of any progress which we make in a day or so.”
When our elderly client had gone, Holmes sat curled in his armchair, the smoke from his pipe creating a dense cloud of acrid fumes around his form. At last, he leaned forward, and his grey eyes fixed themselves on me.
“A pretty little problem, is it not, Watson? What do you make of it?”
“Your first priority must be the house on Merchant Road, to see this man of whom we have heard.”
“My dear fellow, the man could walk into these very rooms in the next few seconds and we would be no better placed to know if he is Wargrave or not, having never met the fellow. Merchant Road will yield nothing to us at present. There is only one course of action open to us, and that is to examine the facts of the man’s suicide. I shall consult the back files of the Times and see what I can ascertain from the reports at the time. You may stay here, Watson. It is in the moment of action, not research, that I call for your support and courage.”
It was a little after twelve when Holmes returned. He was eager, bright, and in an excellent mood, far different from that black depression which had begun to descend upon him over the past few days.
“Sophia, Mrs. Wargrave, is now Lady Sophia Galsworthy,” said he. “She married a man by the name of Sir Benjamin Galsworthy last year, and they reside now in Kensington. Galsworthy is a successful financier, so the lady would appear to have kept true to form in her choice of spouse.”
“Did you learn anything about the Wargrave business other than tracing the wife?”
Holmes shrugged. “Nothing of substance. Having identified the body, Mrs. Wargrave, now Lady Sophia, could provide no explanation for her husband taking his own life.”
“Were the features of the body disfigured by the gunshot wound?”
Sherlock Holmes chuckled at the suggestion. “I see where your mind is taking you, my dear Watson, but it was a single shot to the temple and the features were not mutilated. You must look elsewhere for a solution. We can do no better than to call on Lady Sophia and learn what we may from the lady in question.”
We had a pleasant drive through London on that afternoon, alighting at Kensington Park Gate as the bells of St. Mary Abbot’s chimed the half-hour. We arrived at an attractive town house set back from the main road, with steps leading up to the front door, framed by two austere pillars. As soon as we had turned the corner to approach the house, I felt Holmes’s fingers close around my forearm. He pointed to the familiar blue figure of a London constable.
“There has been some devilry here, Watson,” said Holmes.
My friend’s name was sufficient to assure entry, and we were soon in consultation with our old friend, Lestrade, who was clearly surprised to see us.
“The crime was only committed in the early hours of the morning, Mr. Holmes,” said he; “how did you hear of it so soon?”
“You are under a misapprehension, Lestrade,” said my companion. “We are here on a private errand in the course of a small enquiry. I have reason to speak to the lady of the house.”
Lestrade shook his head in bewilderment. “Do you mean to say that you are not here in connection with the events of last night?”
Holmes’s eyes narrowed. “I know nothing of them.”
Lestrade’s eyes flicked from one to the other of us. “Sir Benjamin Galsworthy has been stabbed to death.”
A flush of colour burst onto the ascetic cheeks of Sherlock Holmes and his brows creased over his intense eyes. “Fascinating. Would you have any objection to some interference in the case on my part, Lestrade?”
“Not at all, Mr. Holmes, although it is early days. I have made only scant progress. Come this way.”
The room into which we were shown was large and expensively furnished. There were two glass-fronted cases, each containing leather-bound volumes on such diverse topics as the fall of the Roman Empire, the history of taxidermy, and the memoirs of the surgeon of a whaling ship. There were three small windows which looked out onto the street outside, although there was a hole in one of them and splinters of glass were scattered around the floor. A modest fireplace was set into the wall, and in front of it was a bearskin hearthrug. The purity of the white fur was tinged with that sickening scarlet intrusion which we knew too well.
The body on the rug was that of a well-made man of about fifty years of age. He lay on his stomach, his face turned toward us. One eye glared in painful defiance, as though our presence was an unwelcome one. A knife protruded from between his broad shoulders. There was an almost understated elegance about the piercing of the skin and tissue which made the violence of the attack seem even more terrible.
“A burglary gone wrong,” observed Lestrade. “You see those shards of glass from the window behind the desk?”
“I observed them as I entered the room,” said Holmes. “You think the murderer came in that way?”
“I think it is probable.”
“Who discovered the body?”
“The lady of the house. She raised the alarm at once.”
Holmes walked to the broken window. “Rather a public place for an illegal entry. Why did the burglar not try to gain access to the house from the back, where there is less chance of him being observed?”
“The street may well have been empty,” countered Lestrade. “The doctors say that the murder occurred in the early hours of this morning, so there would not have been very many people about.”
“It still seems to me to be an unnecessary risk.”
Any further debate on the subject was prohibited by the entrance of one of the most remarkable women I had ever seen. She was tall, stately, with a proud expression upon her noble features. Her cheeks were sallow, so that her dark eyes seemed almost black. She was undeniably attractive, but there was a cruelty about her features, a subtle slyness which it was impossible to ignore.
“What is the meaning of this, Inspector?” she said. “Who are these gentlemen?”
My friend stepped forward. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, Madam. I am here to assist in any way I can.”
“I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes, and I know something of your reputation.”
“Do I have the pleasure of addressing Lady Sophia Galsworthy?”
The lady bowed her head in response. “As I have told the inspector, Mr. Holmes, nothing has been stolen, although this was clearly an attempt to rob us which my husband foiled. He lost his life in his attempt to protect us. I suppose the chances of catching whoever did it are slim.”
Holmes smiled. “You must have more faith in our skills, Lady Sophia. The matter may not be as bleak as you suggest.”
“I am glad to have your opinion, sir.”
“I wonder if I might ask you one or two questions.”
“The inspector can enlighten you, since I have told him all I know.”
Sherlock Holmes gave a curt smile. “My presence here is connected to another matter with which you might be able to assist me.”
Lady Sophia bowed her head. “Very well, but I should prefer to be interrogated away from this room.”
The Return of Sherlock Holmes Page 15