Robin Simes shook his head. “No, he said that with the verdict being official and everyone knowing, his bishop would not permit it. But there’s a spare portion of land by one side of the churchyard. Church owns it, and one day when they need more room, they’ll move the fence to enclose that bit, too. He let us bury her there. Said that one day she’d be back in the churchyard, but until then bishop wouldn’t say much since it isn’t the proper cemetery, like. He’s a good man, did his best, I reckon.”
I thought so, too. But I could see problems arising with that, as well, and I spoke quietly. “If Mr. Holmes investigates and your mother’s death does prove to have been suicide, your minister may have little choice but to ask for her coffin to be moved. Anyone with an interest in stirring up trouble would have no problem persuading the bishop to give such an order. That land may not be a part of the official churchyard, but it still belongs to the church, and a suicide may not rest in consecrated ground.”
I watched, along with my friend, as they thought about what I said, and Holmes’s own warnings. At length, Florence’s gaze met that of her husband, and he nodded.
“We appreciate all that, but we’re agreed,” said Florence. “Mr. Holmes, will you investigate my mother’s death? If it were suicide, that’s that. But if it were some sort of accident, somehow, and someone tried to cover that up, we want to know. Then she can rest in the churchyard proper. And if it were murder, then we want to know why, and the murderer—whoever it were—has to be punished. We can give you twenty sovereigns now and more when it’s wanted. Is that enough to hire you?”
Holmes nodded slowly. “It is. Go home, and tomorrow I shall join you.”
They left, and I remained with my friend.
“It’s not going to be easy,” I commented.
“No. Your aid would be useful, Watson. The first thing we need to decide is if the death could have been an accident.” There was a twinkle in his eyes and I grunted.
“If you believe that, Holmes, you would believe anything. If she died by accident, there would be no note. Who dies accidently, having first written a letter indicating they intend to die? No, it’s suicide or murder.”
“Quite so, Watson, but you heard Mrs. Simes. She wants to be certain that her mother’s death was not accidental. Why? Perhaps by proving it no accident, we may also prove it was not suicide. Then there is but one answer.”
I thought that over. “Reasonable enough, Holmes. Where shall you start?”
“With an investigation of all of the circumstances. The coroner appears to have made up his mind very quickly, but consider, Watson. Here we have a woman in good health, with a loving family and with some savings, yet she declares herself to be alone, penniless, and despairing. I want to talk to those who knew her, ask of her disposition, if she were often depressed or unhappy. Then, too, I am not certain the coroner believed his verdict. He may have been pressured or seen no other possibility. He did give Mrs. Simes her mother’s letter, and that is not the usual practice. I will question the lawyer, too. I find it, shall we say, a little brutal that he demanded she gather all her possessions and be gone from the house within forty-eight hours. What was his hurry—or was that a demand from his client’s brother?”
That had not occurred to me. “Maybe he had instructions to sell the house?”
“That could be so, but Mrs. Klimpton had lived amicably with his brother for fifteen years, what harm to give her a week to pack and depart? Then, too, how is it that her family are certain she was on excellent terms with her lover until his death, but only then does she discover herself to have been not only cut out of the will as his companion, but also to receive nothing as an employee. The Simeses said it, Watson: even the gardener received ten pounds. In what way had Lily Klimpton so offended her lover and employer that he struck her name from his will entirely? And how was it she was unaware of such a transgression?”
“How do you know she was?”
“I do not. Yet her daughter did not know, and if her mother had truly committed suicide, I think that she would have made some prior indication to Mrs. Simes where matters stood. No, Watson, I believe it to have been neither accident nor suicide, and it is the other possibility I intend to investigate. There is this, too. Mrs. Simes suspects Kyle Johnson, and she is right in so much as he is the one who profits from a will that was known to have been unchanged for many years. Did he demand his brother alter the will, and did he bring some sort of compulsion upon him to do so?”
With that he departed to his bedroom, where I could hear him preparing for bed.
I retired as well and found him gone in the morning. Whereupon I ate my breakfast and sent a note to my colleague, asking him to hold himself in possible readiness to assume my patients. My summons was not long in coming, for the following evening I returned to our rooms to find a telegram from Holmes.
“Come as soon as possible,” it read.
I went at once to purchase a ticket on the ferry. I intended to take the ferry from the Queensborough Pier and to that destination I betook myself, together with my medical bag, a small case, and my usual companion, which was securely and unobtrusively tucked into a pocket under my right hand.
The Isle of Sheppey, for those who do not know, is off the coast of Kent, about forty-six miles to the east of London. It is thirty-six miles in area and separated from the mainland by a channel named The Swale. The name originated in ancient Saxon and, most appropriately, meant sheep, since the island has extensive marshes which support large numbers of the animals.
The seas around the island are dangerous and there is a long list of shipwrecks. The people are insular, community-minded, and consider themselves quite different from Londoners, or indeed, anyone else on the mainland. I thought Holmes would not find it easy to investigate a possible murder in Sheppey—and discovered on my arrival that I was right.
Holmes met me at the harbor and, taking my case, led me to a cab. There being few automobiles on the island as yet, the cab was horse-drawn and, I was happy to note, drawn by a beast in excellent condition. Once ensconced in the cab, Holmes spoke quietly.
“I came here with certain letters from Lestrade and Harrison, commending me to the police here, and to the municipal authorities. Despite that, and while all have been polite, no one has told me more than they must. I am hoping that you may have better fortune.”
“I can speak to the coroner and the doctor who attended Alistair Johnson, certainly,” I offered.
“That was my hope.” The cab clopped its way down a winding street, and now halted at a small, neat house. “I have taken this on a week’s lease,” Holmes informed me as we alighted. “It belongs to a friend of the Simeses, originally belonging to the friend’s grandmother, who died a month ago. They intend to sell the place but want to make certain repairs and improvements first. They have agreed to rent it to me on a week-by-week basis for so long as I wish, or for no more than the next six weeks, after which they may wish to begin work on the place.”
I followed him as he unlocked the front door. The house was a pleasant one, perhaps a trifle old-fashioned with paneling and dark paint, but clean and tidy, with no smell of mold or damp.
“How many bedrooms, Holmes? Are they likely to sell it easily?”
“Two, and yes. Sheppey is becoming popular, and more people are buying houses here. The Simeses’ friends are right—if the house is in good repair and certain, not too-expensive improvements are made, they may well realize an excellent sum from the sale.”
I immediately found, once I placed my items in the bedroom Holmes indicated, what at least one of the improvements should be. I said nothing, however. I have seen worse arrangements, and during daylight it would be no hardship to make my way outside to the small building containing the convenience. After dark, there was a utensil under the bed, which would save me that journey.
I wandered back inside after using the facility and found Holmes in the kitchen. A fire warmed the house, a savory smell emanating from
a pot on a trivet across a corner of the fire, while on another a kettle steamed quietly.
I found mugs, milk, tea, and sugar on the table, along with a brown teapot enmeshed in a violently multi-colored cozy and made us a pot of tea while Holmes busied himself with a sheaf of papers. Once the tea was made, I poured that out, broke open a packet of digestive biscuits, and sat down to listen to further revelations.
Holmes drank, shuffled the papers, and looked saturnine. “The coroner agrees with me. He, too, believes someone dying by accident would hardly leave a letter suggesting suicide. He points out that there is no evidence of anything but self-harm, that there is evidence the lady had good reason to act so, and that, while he feels for the family’s distress at his verdict, he believes it was the only one open to him.” He finished his tea, poured another cup, took a biscuit and waited for my comment.
I could only agree with the general consensus. “As you will recall, Holmes, that was my own point. However, the question is, what credentials does the coroner have to make his pronouncements?”
“None whatsoever,” Holmes said. “Other than he appears to be a man of some commonsense, moderate experience, and is neither easily overborne, nor a fool. He has been the coroner here for almost twenty years and has ruled on a considerable number of deaths in that time.”
I looked up in surprise. “A considerable number? What sort of number? There cannot be many in any one year.”
Holmes replied with a number that made me blink in surprise.
“But Holmes, this is a small island. How is it that there are so many deaths each year?”
“The ports, Watson. In storms ships come here to berth, and many discharge cargoes as well. Sheppey is known as a place where ships have been wrecked in storms—with considerable loss of life—and the bodies come ashore and require an inquest. Then, too, they have some trade in holiday-makers and day-trippers in the summer. Both those and the sailors from the ports drink, take walks on the cliffs, fall from those and are killed, or fall off their ships and drown. Sailors become embroiled in fights, holiday-makers walk under vehicles or take out small boats and drown, are severely injured and die, or suffer heart attacks. In the end, the coroner inherits them all.”
“Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “I suppose so. In other words, he is familiar with most of the ways in which people die, and his verdict was not unfair, the more so if there was no indication otherwise.”
“Quite so, Watson. No, it is the doctor to whom you must turn. I have made inquiries about him and I am convinced he is a man of limited experience in the more unusual deaths.”
I bit back a tart comment lest I was unfair. Still, I could imagine the doctor, now. In such a place he would be familiar with the routine ailments, the usual accidents, but anything even slightly out of the way he would most probably overlook. He would be one of two types, I thought, either elderly, having resided here much of his life, and therefore set in his ways, or young, with little experience and a belief in his own infallibility, since he was a doctor.
“What do you know of him?”
“He is in his late twenties.” I suppressed a groan. “His father was the doctor here before him.”
I failed to suppress that groan and Holmes eyed me with amusement.
“And he has only taken over the practice here in the last year since his father became ill and is unable to do the more arduous work. Nonetheless, the older man continues to work. I do not know which of them was the most involved with Mrs. Klimpton’s determination of death.”
I looked at him despairingly. “Holmes, you know what will happen. I’ll ask the young one if he is certain it was suicide. He’ll draw himself up and ask if I am suggesting that he is incompetent, and then he’ll show me the door. Either that or he’ll call in his father who, at the same question, will most probably perform the same action.”
Holmes shrugged. “I have confidence you will persuade them to listen.”
I regarded him sourly. “I’m pleased one of us is confident. Where can I find the surgery?”
I accepted a piece of paper with two names and an address. “Doctors James Farrell and Morgan Farrell, 12 Ocean View Road. Is that far from here?”
“No, walk down to the harbor, turn left along the front…”
“I shall go in the morning,” I said with some decision. It had grown chilly, clouds were gathering, and I had no intention of setting out into what looked like an increasingly unpleasant afternoon.
“They will be free shortly,” Holmes told me in bland tones. “Their usual practice is to cease appointments at three p.m. The son does his rounds after that. If you go now, you will be able to see the father alone and be the more welcome, perhaps.”
I understood. “And if he does only surgeries now, he may be inclined to talk to a colleague from London while the son is out. He may be lonely and beginning to feel he is losing touch with his work. Yes, you are right; he may welcome my visit. Very well, Holmes, I shall go immediately.”
2
To my pleasure, Dr. James Farrell greeted me with every evidence of delight.
“My dear fellow, how extraordinarily kind of you to drop in on a colleague. Where are you staying? Oh yes, yes, I know the family, how did you hear, friends of the Simeses. Of course, yes.” His voice dropped lower. “The Simeses, you will know about the mother…?” I nodded. “So unfortunate.” He frowned. “I knew Lily Habbert all her life. I would never have believed it. She was always so strong, so much an optimist.”
As he talked he ushered me into a pleasant study, waved me to a seat, and settled himself opposite me in a large, comfortably sagging chair. He looked to be in his late sixties, but his hair had still some brown amid the white, and his eyes were alert and intelligent. He paused in his reminiscences to call for afternoon tea and upon the tray’s arriving, he broke off the conversation again to pour tea and offer cream scones. With that accomplished, he returned to the subject.
“And you will know about her disappointment…?”
I nodded. “I find it inexcusable that any decent man would so deceive a woman,” I said sternly, if ambiguously.
Dr. James Farrell sighed. “She was a good woman, Lily, and up to that time I would have said Alistair Johnson was a good man. You will have heard from the Simeses that they were astounded at Lily’s subsequent actions. I admit that knowing her as I did, I, too, found it almost incredible. Yet, you cannot ignore that letter she left, and in her own handwriting.”
“The Simeses say that she would not have signed it as the letter was signed,” I said in a neutral voice.
“That is true, quite true, yet how else did she die?” His voice suggested that although he could not believe what had occurred, he could think of no other explanation. I led him to talk of Alistair Johnson’s family, and that, too, was informative.
“Yes, the grandfather was—er—the natural son of a certain person. Minor nobility, you understand, but well-to-do, oh yes, very well-to-do. Had the lad educated, and when the time came, the grandfather had Alistair and his bother Kyle educated as well. Alistair went off to London and did well for himself. Came back and built that house. That is, he bought it and added more to the ground floor and upstairs rooms, so now it is almost doubled in size. It will sell for a considerable sum. I have heard certain such amounts mentioned…” Here he mentioned them, and my own eyes opened wider.
“Yes, Kyle will do well out of his brother’s death.” His voice hardened. “If it were not that I know precisely how Alistair Johnson died, I would wonder…. But then, I do know and there is no question.”
“And what work did he do?” I asked. “Kyle Johnson, that is?”
“As little as possible,” Dr. Farrell snapped. “Boy was an idler from the beginning.”
I asked for enlightenment, to be told that Kyle was a dilettante, a wastrel—and a librarian. I manfully restrained myself at that point. To be a librarian is not usually regarded as an inclination to the criminal.
I passed anothe
r hour in further gossip about the Johnson family, shook old Dr. Farrell’s hand warmly, and departed, promising that were I still on the Island in another day or two, I would call on him again. In fact, I intended to do so.
Thereafter I returned to our temporary address—in some haste, for it was beginning to blow and the first spits of rain starting to fall—to find Holmes, with whom I eagerly shared fruits of my labors.
“He condemned the brother as an idler, a wastrel—and a librarian,” I reported, managing to give the words the same intonation as Farrell. “I tell you, Holmes, I was hard put not to laugh. His entire condemnation of Kyle Johnson is based on his preference for a man who hunts, fishes, has a pack of dogs, and is the sort of full-blooded squire who is a danger to himself and those around him, particularly to his tenants. Kyle, too, went to London and returned with a modest amount of money—so Farrell said—although from a description of Kyle’s style of living I suspect the money with which he returned was more than merely modest. He collects books, hence the ‘librarian,’ and while Farrell doesn’t know how he earned his money in London, he hinted that it was in some unsavory position.”
“He suggested nothing?”
“He suggested many things, but it was clear he had no genuine knowledge. Truthfully, Holmes, I gained the impression that the old man had some sort of grudge or a dislike of the brother and would find it difficult to be fair. Alistair he liked, and he was surprised and a trifle distressed that Alistair behaved so badly toward Lily Klimpton, whom he also knew and liked. On that, he finds it hard to believe she killed herself. He says she was strong-minded and an always-cheerful optimist. He agrees that the way she signed the letter, with one name only, was unlike her.”
“Did he speak of any medical examination of the body?”
“Only to say that his son—Morgan Farrell—did that, as he was unwell that day. His son did the work alone.”
Holmes considered. “Should you call on him again when his son is there, do you think you could draw them into a discussion on the son’s findings?”
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