Sherlock Holmes - Found Dead

by Lyn McConchie

  “There,” I summed up. “She had the ability to make the drug, the strength to move Lily to the bed, the desire to see her dead and not inheriting. What more do you want?”

  “Proof,” Holmes said wryly.

  “And,” Kyle Johnson added, “why would Grace see to it that I inherited, and how did she do that?”

  I waved a hand. “I’m sure there is a way.”

  To my delight, my friend nodded. “Yes. Since we believe Mrs. Klimpton was murdered, someone committed the crime. But there is something you are not considering, Watson. In your admirable exposition, you said ‘she counterfeits a letter,’ as if it was a mere detail. But that is no detail, as even a person with natural talent requires some practice. They do not merely sit down and dash off a letter written wholly as if in another’s handwriting. And what of the will? Lily told her family only days before her lover’s death that it remained as it had been, that it left all to her. Yet when it was read only days later, it left Johnson’s estate to his brother.”

  “Then should we talk to the lawyer?” I suggested.

  “We should,” Holmes confirmed. “Mr. Johnson, are you prepared to come with us? The lawyer is more likely to tell us what we ask should you accompany us.”

  Kyle Johnson nodded. “I’ll come,” he said briefly. “I’d like to hear what he says. Mr. Wright is my own lawyer, in addition, since I officially retained him against the unpleasant rumors that plagued me.”

  This was not as easy as I, for one, had hoped. Wright was, his senior clerk told us, out at a farm. Since the farm was on the far side of the Isle it would be late evening before he returned.

  Holmes turned to me. “Go back to Baker Street, Watson. We can do nothing more today, and you will not wish another day away from your practice. Johnson and I will talk to Mr. Wright tomorrow, and I will inform you of what he says.”

  I accepted with reluctance, but I could see we could do no more today. I nodded, returned to the house Holmes rented, packed my bag, and departed for the ferry. I reached home mid-afternoon and, on checking my list of patient appointments, saw that I could not return to the island on the morrow. I spent a thoroughly tedious day, hoping I would return to some communication from Holmes.

  There was nothing, and I settled for the evening. Perhaps the morning might bring something. It did not. I pursued my rounds once again, rushing through them, only to find upon my return that once again there was no message.

  Indeed, it was not until the day after that, on returning for luncheon with diminishing hopes, that I received a letter, postmarked from the island. I forgot my hunger and tore it open, my gaze flicking down the few lines.

  I lost my appetite.

  6

  Holmes wrote only that they spoke with the lawyer at last. He could tell them nothing, and that on close questioning agreed that events suggested some odd circumstances but would not elaborate. However, they hoped to learn more if Johnson could convince Wright that as the chief beneficiary and the client’s brother, he was entitled to the truth.

  I glared at the single page. It told me nothing, save that Johnson’s lawyer might—or might not—know something of use. That Holmes and Kyle Johnson might—or might not—be able to find what that was, and that if revealed, this information might—or might not—help in the case. I muttered several vulgar expressions I learned in the army, and at last sat down to a cold luncheon. Not that it had been meant as such, but it had become so in the interim—and cold scrambled eggs are not the tastiest meal.

  I went back to my patients, and on returning that evening I assessed my appointments and concluded ruefully that I could not afford another day away. I therefore continued with my duties, all the while hoping to hear again from Holmes. I did so, but in person, not via Her Majesty’s post.

  I reached Baker Street after another hard day’s work to find my friend waiting. Dinner had just been laid on the table and I was at once offered a stout whisky to go with my roast beef. I accepted it, along with the proffered plate, sat and eyed Holmes, waiting for an explanation.

  “The lawyer was unhelpful,” was his first comment.

  I raised my eyebrows, mutely requesting more.

  “Upon Johnston putting forth his arguments for complete frankness, Wright offered a number of ideas but said he had no information. He suggested that his client made two wills at a similar time, leaving one where it could be read and the other in a secret compartment of the writing desk—which was where he had been directed to find the will. He could not suggest who might have written a second will—if a second will there had been. He had not done so, and no, the will he read was the one enacted. If there was another, that was the one the lady read.”

  “How did Johnson react to the suggestion that his brother deliberately cheated the lady of promised expectations?” I asked dryly.

  “Badly. Wright then said it was merely a submission that might fit the facts and offered only because we were so importunate in demanding some other possibility, but he had no indication it was so, nor was he saying it had occurred. He refused to speculate further, repeating that he enacted one will and one will only for his client, that being the will whose terms he carried out. Those were the facts in his possession, and he could tell us no more.”

  “Were you satisfied?”

  “No,” Holmes said flatly. “Nor was Johnson. However, if you cannot get blood out of a stone, you can still less get suppositions from a lawyer. He showed us the door, politely, but the door nonetheless, saying that he had a client due and we had little option but to depart.”

  “So where will you go from there?”

  “Miss Grace Klimpton. I have no great hopes of her, but she should be eliminated from the inquiry.”

  “Then why are you back here?”

  “Because until her family moved to the island, they lived in London. I intend to seek out those who knew her then and ask of her character.”

  I snorted. “If she was then as Johnson says she is now, you should hear much to her discredit.”

  “Perhaps,” was all Holmes said, and we left it at that, spending a convivial evening and retiring a little late so that I slept in, to my moderate annoyance.

  * * * *

  Holmes was gone when I arose and was not yet home when I returned. I ate dinner alone, wondering where he was and what he heard of Lily Klimpton’s sister-in-law. It was likely to be thoroughly unpleasant, I thought, and was the more confounded when Holmes returned around eight p.m. to report on his day’s endeavors.

  Holmes sat, accepted something to drink, and looked at me. “I was able to speak to a number of those who knew the lady in her youth. They were uniform in their agreement that she was kind, generous, and tolerant.”

  I was astounded.

  Holmes eyed me with amusement. “I, too, was surprised, Watson, but that was their summation.”

  “But—do you think those on the Isle are lying?”

  “No, I think that at some time between her family’s departure from London and their settling into their home on Sheppey, something happened that changed her. I will be gone all day tomorrow, for I am told that in London she had a best friend, and it is she I seek.”

  I had been thinking. “Holmes? What event could so change a kind and generous girl to the acidulated woman so disliked by Johnson and feared by others?”

  “I do not know, Watson. It is what I hope to find out.”

  We retired after I obtained a more detailed account of his investigations, but I learned little more save that central mystery, went to bed unsatisfied, and fell asleep still pondering.

  * * * *

  Holmes was gone again as soon as we ate breakfast, departing on the omnibus to the far reaches of London. He wished to seek out Mrs. Michelle Rogers—her Christian name, I was informed over the bacon and eggs, coming from the lady’s grandmother, who was French.

  I departed on my rounds at the same time, walking to my first appointment as the weather was fine. I found old Mr. Abuthnot home and
his son Alf, as well, and we exchanged such conversation as pleased us all. I passed a busy day, and only returned by dinnertime, having shared lunch with a patient.

  Holmes greeted me as I entered. “Dinner will be here momentarily, Watson. Sit.”

  I obeyed, and dinner, as he said, arriving barely a minute later, was dished up between us and we fell to with good appetite. With my hunger allayed I glanced across the table towards my friend.

  “What did Mrs. Rogers tell you, Holmes?”

  “A sad story.” I settled into my chair in anticipation. “Mrs. Rogers—her friends call her Mic—was quite forthcoming, since all those involved are now dead. It seems that she and Miss Grace Klimpton were not only best friends for most of their first eighteen years, they were also neighbors. And, on the other side of their road, they both had another friend, a lad named Samuel Rexton. His family moved to Clive Road when the boy was two, and he met the two girls. Being of similar age, the three became fast friends.”

  “I see,” I said. “And when they were older he married the other girl.”

  “No, Watson. I said that the story was a sad one, but it is also not quite the usual run of events. No, they remained fast friends until they were sixteen, when the boy became a clerk. Having a shrewd brain and natural bent for the work, and being a conscientious and hard-working lad, he became the right-hand man for his employer in less than two years. He was promoted, and on his new salary, if he received only a little aid from his family, he could afford to marry. He immediately proposed to Miss Grace, who, with her family’s agreement, accepted. A wedding date—the pair being naturally reluctant to wait too long—was suggested for six months’ time. Mrs. Rogers tells me her friend was so happy, it was a delight to see her.”

  “And this Samuel Rexton defaulted?”

  “It was nothing so mundane, Watson. They, together with Mrs. Rogers, attended the minister to make arrangements for the ceremony. The boy was asked for his birth certificate. He thought nothing of that and, his parents being out for the day, he ran home, and knowing where the family papers were kept, he took the sealed envelope and returned. The minister opened it, read, and grew stern, asking the boy if he had seen the certificate before. He replied that he had not and asked if there was some difficulty. At which the minister, Mrs. Rogers says, became odd in his manner and said he must see the parents from both sides before the matter could go further.”

  I stared. It could only be that the certificate revealed something either discreditable or which could be seen as such. From long experience as a family doctor, I suspected the truth of the matter, however, I said nothing.

  Holmes eyed me. “Yes, Watson, I think you guess the problem. Upon the families being gathered, the minister exhorted the Rextons to explain how Samuel’s birth certificate did not contain their names. Instead, it listed the birth of a baby boy, named Samuel, with the mother’s name being Rose, and the father listed as ‘unknown.’

  “Mrs. Rogers says that at this there was an outcry, and from the furor it emerged that Mrs. Rexton was unable to have children. Her sister, a wild and frivolous girl, ran away with some man—they did not know more of him than his Christian name—and then was abandoned. She returned with child and her sister took the baby to rear as their own. Rose died from pneumonia when her son was barely three. They had not told Samuel any of this, intending to do so once he was older, but feared that he might cease to regard them as his parents. They loved him too much to risk that outcome.”

  “Yes,” I said soberly. “I have seen such things. It is always a conundrum whether to tell the child, and when. I always advise parents to tell the child the truth before such problems may arise.”

  “Indeed. And this was the worst of times for the boy to learn the truth. It seems that the Rextons had not fully appreciated the requirement for a birth certificate, and the events fell on them like a thunderclap. The meeting broke up with the agreement that the Klimptons would consider the matter. However, as Mrs. Rogers tells me, her friend and Samuel assumed all would be well. Grace loved Sam and his birth did not weigh with her, for as she told her friend, he was a good man, had never in all his life done anything discreditable, had a good position at a fair salary, and her family knew all that. It was the greater shock, therefore, to find that all was not well, and her family was united against the marriage.”

  “Bad blood,” I said sadly. “They would tell the girl they did not know who the boy’s father was, save that he got a young, naïve girl with child and then casually abandoned her. They did not know his background, his family, nor even his family name, and he could have been anyone.” I sighed. “By which they mean that he could have been wholly or partly of another race. And that was the heart of it.”

  “Exactly so. The meeting took place a week later and the Klimptons were adamant that the marriage would not take place. Miss Grace said she would marry her lover anyway, and was told she could not, for she was substantially under age and no minister would agree to perform the ceremony. Her father made arrangements that they would remove to the Isle of Sheppey within the month, where he would take up employment. Until then, Grace was kept in family confinement to prevent any elopement.”

  I sighed. “You were right. It is not utterly unusual, but it is out of the ordinary way. What happened after that?”

  “Mrs. Rogers says that Grace had no choice. Her family kept her close, and they would not permit Samuel to see her again. Mrs. Rogers was only allowed to speak to Grace with a family member present, lest she pass on some letter or information from Rexton. Once the family removed to the island, Grace was permitted to write a brief letter of farewell to her friend, but after that she was forbidden further communication.

  “However, a mutual school-friend spent time on the Isle with her parents, and through that medium they were able to exchange letters for some months. Mrs. Rogers said that Miss Grace repeatedly asked after Samuel in her letters, and finally demanded an answer. Mrs. Rogers perforce told the truth.”

  I looked at Holmes. His face was stern and sad.

  “What did happen to the boy?” I asked apprehensively.

  “The night after Miss Grace and her family left for the Isle of Sheppey, he hanged himself,” Holmes said tersely.

  “And she told Miss Grace. I see now why her whole aspect changed.”

  “It may also explain why she disliked her brother’s marriage. She may have viewed Lily’s friendship with Johnson as similar to hers and feared that wedding Daniel in sudden passion she would come to regret it and then betray her brother. And from that event she sees the worst in people, believing that too much can be hidden, and lives ruined thereby.”

  I was abruptly and deeply sorry for the young girl who had been so much in love, and the young boy unable to live with knowing the truth.

  “Did he leave a letter?” I asked, for some did, leaving behind accusations and more grief.

  “Yes. Mrs. Rogers said it was only a few lines. He forgave his parents for not telling him, and he took his love for Grace into eternity.”

  “And,” I said, with a leap of understanding, “she felt she could never marry, for he would be waiting for her when she died. When they were reunited, she could swear she never loved another.”

  “Sentimental, Watson, but not unlikely to be her way of thinking. What is more relevant is that in the past fifteen years she may have transferred her grief and anger to Lily, who had an apparently happy marriage, but who then, when her husband died, and a former friend returned, went equally happily to his bed and showed all the signs of a loved and contented woman.”

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “I can see that. Grace had no one, since the only man she cared for had been wrenched from her, and here was her sister-in-law with two men who loved her. Perhaps she felt Lily betrayed her first husband. It would be easy to convince herself of that, and to hate her all the more for the bounty she’d received, and which Grace had not. Could Grace be responsible for her sister-in-law’s death?”

&nb
sp; “She was not,” Holmes replied. “I am convinced she has neither the scientific knowledge to distill the laudanum, nor the ability to forge a letter.”

  “Then why have you tracked down her friends?”

  “I wished to know what event altered her so, and with that knowledge I shall approach her directly.”

  “Why?” I asked, quite bewildered by now.

  “As Kyle Johnson said, she may be disliked by many but, do you not see, Watson, she knows things. People talk, and she listens. And however spiteful she may become in her bitterness, I have never heard anything that suggests she would condone willful murder.”

  “I’d not gamble on that,” I advised him. “She disliked, if not hated, her sister-in-law, I suspect she convinced herself that her brother had been cuckolded by Lily. Perhaps, too, she felt Lily’s relationship with Johnson was more for money than for love. Nor is it likely to endear you to her that you know her own secret.”

  “No,” Holmes agreed. “I shall, however, put it to her that the Simeses are certain Lily did not kill herself. I shall ask how certain she is that Samuel did so.”

  “Holmes,” I said sternly, “that is unconscionable.”

  “Do you think so? Very well, I shall not suggest it, but I can draw a parallel. That should suffice.”

  “When shall you call on her?”

  “I’ll go tomorrow.” And he turned the conversation to an experiment he was planning, saying no more on the subject of Miss Grace, save to answer my final question.

  “Did the friends continue to write?”

  “No, the next letter was intercepted, and the Klimpton’s complained to Mrs. Rogers’s father, asking him to prevent her from writing again. Mrs. Rogers heard no more for some years, and in that time she married and bore three children.”

  I calculated. “That was around forty years gone now?”

  “That is so. However, neither woman had ever forgotten the other, and when Mrs. Rogers married, she began to write to her friend again.”