The Death of Cardinal Tosca (The Dispatch Box of John H Watson, MD)

by Ashton, Hugh

Mrs. Harriet Alderton – Windsor

  Our round of the newspaper offices brought us a little closer to discovering the identity of the mystery surrounding the agency of Edwards & Lowe. Each of the five newspapers that we visited had printed the advertisement once only. In each case, the advertisement had been placed personally, seemingly by the Irishman who had been Holmes’ quarry on the previous evening, and had been paid for in cash. The name given on the receipts at the different newspapers varied, but was always a name that is associated with the Emerald Isle. On one point, all our informants were agreed; that he was possessed of a strong Irish accent.

  The wording of the advertisement placed in the different newspapers was identical in each case, stating that a vacancy existed for a kitchen maid to live and work in the Windsor area. The wages offered in the advertisement were good ones, and it was plain that such an advertisement would attract a large number of applicants. The address at which prospective servants were to present themselves was that which we had visited, and the name of the agency was plainly stated as that of Edwards & Lowe. One notable feature of the advertisement was that the time at which applicants were to visit the office was limited to between ten in the morning and half past the hour. Outside those times, it was clearly stated that no applications would be entertained.

  “That time of day being, no doubt, when Alderton would be assumed to be at work in the City, and therefore would be the most unlikely time for him to make enquiries,” remarked Holmes as we made our way from the fourth to the fifth newspaper office.

  “We seem to have accomplished little,” I grumbled.

  “By no means,” Holmes contradicted me. “For example, we now know the appearance of one of the main players in this game. I should certainly know him again were I to meet him. We have established that he is an Irishman, and that another of his confederates is probably called Hannigan. That last is not an established fact, of course, but I think we may regard it as being probable. We also know that he is taking great care to hide his identity, and he is obviously very much aware of his surroundings—in particular of those following him. Indeed, in his way, we may regard him as a professional in his chosen field.”

  “What field would that be?” I asked curiously.

  “He has all the marks of an anarchist or a Fenian. Naturally, we cannot confirm this until we have the pleasure of meeting him face to face, but it strikes me as being a very real possibility.”

  “But what in the world can he want with Alderton?”

  “There, my dear Watson, I confess to being baffled. We must make our way to Windsor this evening, and report our findings to Alderton while attempting to discover this connection between him or his wife and this unknown son of Erin. But before we do that, I suggest that we make our way to the letting agent to determine whether there is anything to be learned regarding the previous tenant.”

  The letting agent, a Mr. Fanshawe, was suspicious of our motives at first, but when Holmes identified himself and explained that he was working for the current tenant of The Willows, for that transpired to be the name of the house currently occupied by Alderton and his wife, he became extremely cooperative.

  “I remember the previous tenant quite well,” he told us, “since I attended to his business myself. He took the house some six months ago, so he was only living there for four months or less.”

  “Can you tell us a little more about him?”

  “He appeared to be some kind of foreigner from the way he was dressed, though he spoke English perfectly well. I had guessed that he had lived overseas for some time, as his skin was considerably darker than yours or mine. He told me that he had recently returned from the colonies, which explained his colouring. A small man, I would have to say, shorter than either of you two gentlemen. He was on the far side of fifty years old, I would say, with hair that was turning white.”

  “Can you give us his name?”

  “His surname was Campion, but I would have to search my books to discover his Christian name. If you will wait one moment, please, I can discover it for you.” He leafed through a ledger. “Ah yes, Edmund.”

  “Indeed,” remarked Holmes, smiling. “Watson, there is no need for you to write down the name. It is already familiar to me.” A little offended by this brusque rejection of my assistance, I closed my notebook.

  “How long ago did he leave the house?”

  “Do you know, I believe I am unable to provide you with that information. I do not mean that I am unwilling to do so,” he added quickly, observing the expression on Holmes’ face, “but that I am unable to do so. The notice terminating the lease arrived by post. I have it here.” He extracted a sheet of paper from the ledger and passed it to Holmes.

  “I see that it has been written on a typewriter,” remarked my friend. “But signed personally, I see. The signature matches that on the lease?”

  “You may see for yourself,” the agent invited him, passing over another sheet of paper.

  Holmes made no comment, but examined the two documents in silence, his brow furrowed, and examining them under his lens, before passing them back to the agent with a word of thanks.

  We left the agent’s after a few more minutes of conversation between Holmes and Fanshawe, and I turned to my friend. “That man described just now was Monsignor Mahoney whom we pursued from Ledbury Hall after the murder of Cardinal Tosca, was it not? No doubt you did not wish me to write down his alias as you already were aware of his real name. What, however, if he were still using that name? Would it not be easier to discover him if this were also added to the description used by those searching for him?”

  Holmes laughed. “I fear, Watson, that your Protestant upbringing has left you strangely ignorant of certain matters. At the school that Mycroft and I attended, it was naturally well known that Edmund Campion was the name of an English martyr of the old faith who was hideously executed in the sixteenth century.”

  I was curious. Holmes had been reticent in his mentions of such matters of faith to me in the past, and I had no knowledge of the way in which he, let alone Mycroft, had been educated. It was now clear to me how Mycroft had been able to retain such good relations with the Holy See, and possibly why Holmes could find himself involved in certain cases somewhat against his will. However, I determined to hold my peace on the subject, knowing that he was more often than not reluctant to speak of these things in any detail.

  “But,” Holmes continued, before I was able to say anything in reply, “I am sure we find ourselves on a familiar trail once more. You are undoubtedly correct in making that connection. The date we have just been given for the start of his lease of the property corresponds to the date when he left Ledbury Hall.”

  “Do you think there is some connection between Mahoney and these mysterious visits by the tramps and by the servants?”

  “It would seem to me to be more than likely that there is such a link,” replied Holmes, “but at present I am unable to tell you of its nature.”

  “The date that he quit the house and cancelled the lease arrangement is a matter of a mere week or even less before Alderton moved in there to take up the lease,” I remarked. “Does that not seem somewhat strange to you?”

  “It may well be strange,” he agreed. “On the other hand, I am reluctant to attach too many threads at this stage in the proceedings. We need data if we are to disentangle this case—or should I say, these cases, for although we seem to have established a connection, we cannot be sure of the link between them, or even if such a link exists. To Windsor, therefore.”

  The town of Windsor is well enough known for it to need no introduction from me. Willow Grove proved to be a pleasantly set older building quite close to the Castle, living up to Alderton’s description of it as “charming”, and the door was opened by a servant, presumably the parlour-maid about whom Alderton had informed us. We sent in our cards, enquiring whether Mrs. Alderton was at home.

  While we were waiting, Holmes bent down to murmur in my ear. “For
a retired major, presumably on half pay, Alderton seems to be doing himself rather well, would you not say?”

  I was forced to agree. The house was well furnished with a number of Oriental knick-knacks, which obviously had not formed part of the original appointments of the house, and were quite clearly of some value. A large bronze statue representing some aspect of the Buddhist faith stood guardian at one end of the hall, fixing us with its inscrutable gaze.

  “He did inform us that he was not in financial straits,” I reminded Holmes. “Even though many of these objects are obtainable in their home country for considerably less than one would pay here, I would judge some of these to fetch a tidy sum were they to be offered for sale. This bronze, for example,” and I pointed to a small statue of some many-limbed deity, “would be a prize in some collections, I believe. Though I myself lacked the means to collect such objets during my time in India, some of the senior officers in my regiment could avail themselves of the opportunity, and some had collections that would not disgrace a small museum. It was from them that I learned a little of the styles and subjects portrayed.”

  “You have hidden depths, Watson,” Holmes smiled.

  At this moment, the maid returned, and informed us that Mrs. Alderton was at home and would receive us. We were shown into the drawing-room, where a young woman sat sewing. Despite the warmth of the summer afternoon, she was wearing a thick dress, with a shawl covering her shoulders, a mode of dress which I would have considered more suitable for the winter than for the present time of year.

  “No, do not rise, I beg you,” Sherlock Holmes said to her, taking her hand. “This is Doctor Watson,” indicating me, “and I am Sherlock Holmes. Your husband has probably informed you that I have been retained to assist with the mystery of the unwanted maids who have come seeking employment at your door.”

  She smiled. “Yes, James told me that he had secured your services. He should return soon, and you may tell him all that you have discovered.”

  “In the meantime, Mrs. Alderton, I would greatly appreciate your account of the recent events.”

  “I am sure James told you everything.”

  “Even so, there are times when a woman’s eye will catch details that may be overlooked by us mere male members of the species.”

  Holmes’ flattery appeared to work, and Mrs. Alderton smiled at us in reply. “That is true, I suppose. I may tell you at the outset that I am sorry that we ever came to this miserable house. Oh, it may appear to be a pleasant enough dwelling, and I suppose that in its way it matches that appearance, but I can tell you, Mr. Holmes, that it has not been a happy home for James and me. James mentioned the tramps to you?”

  “He did indeed.”

  “Almost from the first day we were here these horrible dirty men made their appearance at the back door, begging and asking for food. I am not a hard-hearted woman, Mr. Holmes—James is all for sending them packing without any charity—but I always feel it is my duty to assist those less fortunate than myself.”

  I could not prevent myself from interjecting. “A very worthy attitude,” I said to her.

  She turned and smiled at me. “Thank you, Dr. Watson. However, the tramps that presented themselves at our back door were of a type that I do not wish to encounter. There are some—I do not know if you are well acquainted with the type, Mr. Holmes—who appear to have fallen from a higher station in life than the one they occupy at present. In such cases, one cannot help but feel that some charity is due them. These, though, were uniformly scoundrels of the lowest class. With some mendicants of the better type such as I have just described to you, I have no hesitation in allowing them to enter the kitchen and to eat their food under the eyes of the cook—”

  “Has the cook been with you long?” Holmes asked, interrupting her.

  “No, Mrs. Wiles has only been with us since we moved into the house. I will not quite say that she came as part of the furniture of the house,” she smiled, “but she had worked for the previous tenant, and wished to continue working in the house.”

  “Indeed. And does she sleep on the premises?”

  “No, she lives locally, and goes home of an evening after dinner. The girl Lucy who admitted you sleeps here. Other than James and myself, she is the only one occupying this house after eight in the evening. In any case... What was I saying?”

  “You were telling us of the tramps who visited the house,” I reminded her.

  “Oh yes, so I was. The kind of tramp who visited us, as I say, was uniformly, without exception, a foul slovenly brute, and I could never dream of allowing such a person into the house.”

  “You spoke to them yourself, I believe?” asked Holmes.

  “I spoke to some of them. Mrs. Wiles begged me to do so on more than one occasion.”

  “Was there anything that you observed in common about these men, other than the dirt and general ragged appearance?” Holmes enquired of her.

  “There was indeed, now that you come to mention it,” she answered him. “I believe they all spoke with an Irish accent.”

  “Maybe not unusual,” I remarked, “if they had all been labourers working on the same task, which had ceased, and cast them all onto the road together.”

  “Maybe,” said Holmes, though the tone of his voice told me that he was not convinced by my supposition. “You are certain of that, Mrs. Alderton?”

  “I cannot be completely certain, no, but I can be reasonably sure of it. When I refused them their demands, I expected anger and threats, I confess, and I had steeled myself for such antagonism, but it never came.”

  “You are a brave woman,” Holmes said to her.

  “I am a soldier’s daughter, and I have faced down rebellious natives in my time,” she said, with a touch of steel in her voice. “I am not about to shrink from confronting a drunken wretch.” There was a touch of fire in her eyes as she uttered these words, and I confess that I, even though happily married, felt a touch of envy towards Alderton with regard to his marriage to this fine woman. “James, on the other hand...” She shook her head. “He would have no business with these men, and he chased two of them away with his revolver one day. After that, they never returned.”

  “And you have had problems with the drains, I believe?”

  She sighed. “The stench has nearly driven us out of the house on some days. Having lived in the East, I had imagined myself to be immune to such things, but it has been truly appalling, especially on hot days. James is in the City on weekdays during the day, so he has escaped the worst.”

  “I confess I smell nothing except the pot pourri here in this room,” said Holmes.

  “Today is not the worst of days and, as you say, the pot pourri masks many smells. Do you wish to experience the foul odour for yourself? I will gladly get Lucy to conduct you to the spot in the house where you may take your fill of it.”

  “Later, I will certainly wish to do that. And the servants? Or rather, the girls who wish to be servants?”

  She sighed again. “This was not perhaps as frightening as the visits of the mendicants, but it was distressing, all the same. We seemed to have a regular procession of these girls coming to the door, convinced that we were seeking a kitchen-maid.”

  “While in fact, you keep only the two servants, the girl Lucy and the cook Mrs. Wiles, and have no wish to employ more? I am correct in that?”

  “That is how matters stand at the moment. It may well be that our circumstances will improve and we will require the services of a kitchen-maid at some time in the future, but that time, I fear, is a little way off.”

  “It must seem a little hard for you after your life in the East,” remarked Holmes sympathetically.

  She smiled faintly. “I suppose that it may be regarded as such, but it is not all a bed of roses there. It is true that we had many servants in Burma, but believe me, it can be more trouble than it is worth to maintain such a household. I confess to feeling the cold, though, even on a day such as this, which is considered a temperat
e one in this country. I fear I will fall victim to rheumatism or some such malady.”

  “I have heard it said that such is the case at times,” Holmes told her gravely. “But to return to the girls. Was there any feature common to all of them that you noticed, as you did with the tramps? They possessed no accent or manner of speech in common, for example?”

  Mrs. Alderton frowned slightly as she appeared to recall the matter. “No, there is nothing of that kind that I can remember. They all seemed to be of the type that would apply for such a post, should it exist.”

  “And they were all sent by this agency which goes by the name of Edwards & Lowe?”

  “So it would seem. Some of the girls were almost hysterical when they were informed there was no post available, and it was difficult for me to make sense of their words.”

  “And there was no mistake on their part regarding the address to which they had been dispatched?”

  “None whatsoever. All had our name and our address, correctly written on a piece of paper.”

  “Do you have any of these pieces of paper?”

  “I believe James kept one or two to take to the agency when he visited their offices. It is possible that one is in the bureau now. If I may...?” She rose and moved towards the article of furniture in question.

  “Please do so.”

  After about a minute, she presented a small square of paper to Sherlock Holmes, who examined it closely. “May I keep this?” he asked, and on receiving an answer in the affirmative, placed the paper carefully in his pocket-book. “Do you happen to know if your husband retained any others?”

  “You may ask him when he returns. I do not know.” Our hostess sat, her hands folded demurely in her lap, as Holmes scribbled a note on his shirt-cuff.

  “Have there been any other untoward incidents? Any other strange visitors?”

  Mrs Alderton frowned. “Now that I come to recall the matter, I can think of one more. He was an Italian, or a Spaniard, or from some country such as that, by the look of him. I cannot be sure. His English was very good, though he spoke with a slight accent. He wanted to know who was living here, and on learning of our having taken the house, asked if I knew the whereabouts of the previous tenant. Of course, I was unable to answer his questions. The incident had completely slipped my mind until now, though. I do not think I even mentioned it to my husband.”