The Mystery of Briony Lodge

by David Bagchi

  ‘A lower rent in return for the prospect of sudden death! It would alarm me, Mr Holmes!’

  ‘Besides, Montmorency here always gives me a warning when the bullets are about to fly, and we go for a walk together. I don’t know if he hears the rounds being loaded into the revolver, or whether he detects some subtle change in the mood of our downstairs neighbour such as invariably precedes his target-practice. I find it is best not to dwell too much on the praeternatural abilities of dogs: it puts me in a queer mood for the rest of the day.’

  ‘If you are sure, Mr Holmes…’ said our fair visitor, sounding not at all sure herself. ‘But to return to the problem of the letters, and whether I should be alarmed about them or not: I wondered if my persecutor were travelling from Oxford to London by means of the railway.’

  ‘It would have to be a very slow train, would it not, Miss Lodge? I mean, a day to get from Goring to Pangbourne. Mind you, I remember an awful journey I once had between…’

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr Holmes, but I fear you misunderstand me. I mean that my persecutor is perhaps following a railway route, taking the train between these towns and villages and putting up for a night or two at each, and posting these empty envelopes along the way.’

  ‘Yes, that would make more sense. I see that. Yes, indeed.’ I was conscious that I had no idea how to help this young woman, but I desperately wanted her to believe that I could. I decided to do the church steeple thing with my fingers again, except that this time I would refrain from excessively vigorous nodding.

  ‘I suppose we would really need a railway timetable to establish whether this is a likely solution, would we not? Unfortunately, I do not have such a thing in my lodgings, nor in the school. We discourage the girls from using trains, you see, for fear of the adverse effects that high-velocity travel might have upon the developing female physiology. Do you perhaps have a Bradshaw here?’

  At this point I should explain that I am a man of the most equable temperament. Not for me the old ‘quick to anger’ routine. Like the Stoic philosophers of old, I do not allow my fellow-man to give me the hump. I wish the Hyde Park Corner preachers a cheery ‘Good day!’ and pass on with a spring in my step. When I read the day’s editorial in The Times, I merely respond with a phlegmatic ‘Well, well—still, I suppose you have to earn your daily crust like the rest of us’, and do not let it get me down. I move on. I regard with the utmost benignity the sound of the coalman making an early-morning delivery, and am hardly bothered at all by the sound of fingernails scraping blackboards. So it was not my reaction I feared at that moment. It was George’s.

  ‘A Bradshaw? A Bradshaw! Do we have a BRADSHAW?!’ The effect was that of an approaching hurricane, meeting a couple of old friends of his, a tempest and a cyclone, on the way. ‘If we had a Bradshaw,’ said George, ‘I tell you what I would do with it. I would take it round to old Bradshaw’s place and beat him to a pulp with it. And then I would bury him. And then I would bury all the Bradshaw guides I could find with him. And I would dance upon his grave. And then I would sing a comic song on it.’

  Luckily, George is very good at comic songs, so I imagine that would be some comfort for Mr Bradshaw’s bereaved relatives in their time of grief.

  ‘I don’t think I understand,’ confessed the beautiful Miss Lodge, prettily. ‘How can you not like Bradshaws, Mr Wingrave?’

  Her appeal was bootless, unlike George. He had found the other cricket boot and in an uncontrollable rage was belabouring himself about the head with it.

  ‘My dear Miss Lodge, permit me to explain,’ I interjected. ‘We believe Mr Bradshaw’s Railway Guide to be the joint editorial production of Messrs Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, Asmodeus, and the Antichrist combined. I strongly suspect that they set themselves up as a limited liability joint stock company with the express purpose of publishing it. You see, Bradshaw’s Guide has the unfortunate effect of persuading people that trains run on time according to fixed routes. People believe it, and they are disappointed in those beliefs. They hope, and their hopes are dashed. They become angry. Worse, they become disillusioned. Until finally, worst of all, they are brought to abject despair. If they cannot believe their Bradshaw, they ask themselves, how then can they believe anything? The cold, comfortless wind of scepticism swirls about their hearts. Their faith in human nature is lost. Their faith in law, in politics, in religion—all disappears. And so the Devil’s work is done.

  ‘If only people would understand: the locomotive is a free spirit. It goes where it will, when it will. It cannot be constrained by timetables and schedules. Do not be misled by mere tonnage: a train may have the appearance of an overweight dinosaur; but it has the soul of a bird, nay, a butterfly, flitting from blossom to blossom as it listeth. One day it may wish to go to Swindon, another to Crewe. Or else, in its caprice, it might decide to while away the live-long day in the repair shed, and neither man nor beast can shift it. People wait for trains on platforms, and get angry when they are late. How foolish and how wrong they are! Rejoice rather that the locomotive exists at all, as one of God’s freest and most unpredictable creatures, and give thanks that it thrives on liberty, while it is we mere mortals who are bound to run along the predetermined tracks of work and duty. How much better to turn up at a station, not to “catch” a train, as the vulgar expression has it, but rather to see if a train will settle upon the rails before you? It may well happen. If it does, by all means get on, but let it take you where it will, and when it will, in its sovereign freedom, and do not complain that it takes you to Edinburgh when you wanted Bristol, or that it gets you there five hours late. No—rather, rejoice. Again I say, rejoice!’

  Just as I was waxing lyrical upon the subject, Harris entered with a tray of tea, and utterly spoilt the impact I knew that my oratory was making on Miss Lodge.

  ‘Here’s the tea. Mrs Hudson has gone out, so Boots and I had to shift for ourselves. Oh, that reminds me, Boots says you will need this.’

  Harris removed a book from his coat pocket and laid it alongside the tea things.

  ‘Apparently First Floor Front usually consults one at this stage in an interview with a beautiful visitor, he tells me.’

  It was the latest edition of Bradshaw’s Railway Guide.

  ‘Perhaps I had better take that,’ said our guest. ‘I fear for Mr Holmes’s blood pressure otherwise.’ After a few moments she had found what she was looking for. ‘Some of these stations are connected, but no railway connects Oxford with Abingdon or Wallingford,’ she announced.

  ‘What about the river?’ asked Harris.

  There are times when Harris amazes me with his insights. Of course, they are not, strictly speaking, his own insights. They are merely sparks that happen to fly off him when he comes into contact with my own, vastly superior, intellect, and which I permit him to pass off as his own original thoughts. It was I who was thinking about the river, but it was my mouthpiece Harris who gave voice to those thoughts. The old coves who used to look after the oracle at Delphi had a similar arrangement with the Pythia, I believe.

  ‘I wondered how long it would take anyone to mention the river. You see, Miss Lodge, some months ago we took a trip up the Thames, Harris, Wingrave, Montmorency and I. And so we happen to know that all the places mentioned are on the river. Your persecutor clearly lacks moral fibre, and I believe we can say that he is no match for your new protectors, if you will allow us to be so named.’

  ‘Of course. I am glad to hear that you wish to take on my case. But tell me, how do you know he is a man, and how can you deduce his moral character merely from his itinerary?’

  ‘As to his sex, that is for the moment but a working hypothesis. My judgement of his character is, however, based on firmer evidence. First, we know from the direction of his journey that he is a downstream man. My colleagues here are all upstream men, men of might and courage who fight against the prevailing current in all matters, fluvial or otherwise.’

  ‘But if his object is me, and I am in Lo
ndon, and he is starting from Oxford, what other direction could he take?’

  ‘Please, Miss Lodge…’ With a wave of the hand and a knowing half-chuckle, which reminded her firmly that I was the helper and she merely the helpee, I dismissed her train of thought. When women make sound points against you, it is sometimes best just to patronize them: that normally renders them speechless.

  ‘Secondly,’ I continued, ‘it is quite evident from the nature of his communication with you that this man has more envelopes than writing paper—why else would he send you empty envelopes? Now, what does this immediately suggest to the observant mind? It suggests to me a man who writes many letters—perhaps letters of complaint to his grocer or to his bank, perhaps letters of disgusted indignation to the national press—and who consequently uses up much writing paper. But he still has envelopes aplenty because at the last moment his courage fails him and he tears his letters up! This is a man more lacking in gumption than in gum-arabic; who possesses not the courage of his own convictions; who is constitutionally incapable of seeing anything through to its conclusion. No, Miss Lodge, I deduce that you need have no fear of your epistolary persecutor.’

  At this point, Montmorency, who from the moment of Miss Lodge’s arrival had been staring at her in dumb admiration, punctuated from time to time only by the pitiful sighs and whimpers of one hopelessly in love, fell to barking. It was almost as if he were admonishing me, for having made a deeply foolish deduction in a matter that touched his beloved.

  The following days would reveal how right Montmorency was.

  ‌

  ‌Chapter Three

  On knowledge, useful and superfluous—The unifying power of ignorance—Blue eyes not admissible evidence in a court of law—A visit from the constabulary—On the importance of removing laundry tags—Montmorency sheds light

  ‘Righto, J.,’ said Harris, indulging in his most vulgarian cant. ‘Let me just get this straight. You’ve promised this female that you, me, and George…’

  ‘Don’t forget Montmorency.’

  ‘… and Montmorency will protect her from person or persons unknown who may, or who may not, be sending her empty envelopes which may, or may not, be meant maliciously, while sailing, or rowing, or possibly swimming, down the Thames.’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘And in the process you have succeeded in falsely representing yourself as the foremost consulting detective in the land, whose name and features are known throughout the world.’

  ‘No. That charge I absolutely deny. Her only misapprehension was in confusing me with someone called Holmes, not this international detective-chappie of yours.’

  ‘Exactly! She believes you to be Mr Sherlock Holmes, the greatest sleuth in the Kingdom, and for all I know the Empire too.’ Harris stopped in full flow, and gave me the look he normally reserves for those occasional moments when my customary erudition escapes me. ‘Good God, J.—you have no idea who Holmes is, have you?’

  My editor (a sensitive soul who is of the unshakeable conviction that readers are people who go to bed at seven o’clock with a drink of warm milk, who do not swear even when they hit their thumb with a hammer, and who combine the intelligence of a gnat with the attention span of the average carp) has advised me that here I should explain how it is that a more than usually well-connected man-about-town such as myself could possibly have lived the better part of a quarter-century in London without encountering the name of Sherlock Holmes. The plain fact of the matter is that I had. I know not how. But if pressed to explain, I would ask to the reader to imagine a sort of valve, or gate, which controls, on a quite involuntary basis, the information which enters and leaves my consciousness. My brain, though more capacious than most men’s (certainly than George’s, though that is not to claim much), is of but finite capacity. Certain facts, which are important to me as a distinguished writer of historical fiction, such as the dates of St Cyril of Alexandria’s birth and death, or the duration of the siege of Acre, are etched as deeply into the old cranium as the memory of my dear mother’s face. But as I saw her only a week Sunday, that is not so surprising. Other facts, such as the bank rate, or the times of high tide in the Limehouse Basin, which I do not need to know, flow into my consciousness and out again. It is as simple as that: those facts which I need to know I store, file, and cross-reference. Those I do not need, such as the existence of an apparently brilliant but eccentric detective, I instantly forget.

  If only others would follow my example. Half the misery in the world is caused by people hoarding facts that do not belong to them. When Mrs Choggins tells your wife that no. 21’s second cousin saw you making love to the new barmaid down The Dog and Duck, it causes you no end of trouble. Yet what was that fact to Mrs Choggins? Nothing at all. It would have been better had she forgotten it instantly. At any rate, it would have been better for you.

  Knowledge should be treated like lost property or stray letters. It should be returned to its rightful owner as soon as possible. No use should be made of it by those unauthorized. If necessary, it should remain in a secure location until called for. If only knowledge were less common, it would be more valued.

  The concept of general knowledge I do not understand at all. If knowledge is generally known, what is the point of my knowing it? Why should I clutter up my brain with information already known to others? I could simply ask the nearest policeman whatever I wanted to know. (Though what we generally want to know is, where is the nearest policeman? In my experience, they are never to be found—when you want one. In my youth, when I often felt unequal to police company, they would appear in flocks of five or six together, all anxious to make my acquaintance and to inquire if I was enjoying being out in the fine night air.)

  No—what the world needs is not general knowledge but specialist knowledge, so that each one of us has our own quantum of information vouchsafed to none other. This one would know how a steam engine works, but nothing else; that one would have binomial theorem tied up, but be unable to lace his boots; for that, he would have to apply to number three, who in turn would be quite ignorant of the Balkan question. And so it would go on. Then all distinctions of rank and birth, wealth and privilege, must fall away: each man, woman, and child would be precious and valued in the sight of all, for their unique knowledge, for the sum of humanity would depend upon its parts, the meanest as much as the noblest. Every family, tribe, nation, and empire would be forced to co-operate one with the other. There would be no more wars, for all must survive or none will. And at dinner parties, we would be able to say to our neighbour, ‘Really? Do you know, I had no idea. How very fascinating.’

  What is more, we would mean it.

  And so it was, astounding as this might seem to his more fanatical followers, that I knew nothing of the identity and reputation of Sherlock Holmes, until that fateful day.

  ‘Speaking as a lawyer, J. …’

  (So that is what Harris does for a living! I did wonder.)

  ‘Speaking as a lawyer, J., I must advise you that you have put yourself in a most vulnerable position, all for a woman whose bona fides have yet to be established.’

  ‘You did see her eyes, didn’t you?’ I said. ‘Intensely blue, very nearly indigo.’

  ‘I did, and I must further advise you that blue eyes do not constitute bona fides. Even if they are very nearly indigo.’

  ‘Then there is only one thing for it. Montmorency and I will have to take a walk.’

  At this, the said fox terrier leapt up onto the window sill once more and started barking and wagging his tail, showing his enthusiasm for the prospect of walking with me. It is also the routine he goes through whenever someone comes to the street door. But, as I have had occasion to remark before, the canine repertoire of communications is perforce a limited one, and the same gesture must do a double or even a triple duty.

  ‘That lunatic First Floor Front isn’t going to start shooting again, is he?’ asked Harris, eyeing the carpet with suspicion.

  �
�No. We are taking a walk to St John’s Wood. Serpentine Avenue, I believe it was. I can at least establish that the address she gave was genuine.’

  ‘How? You don’t even know her house number.’

  ‘There cannot be more than one, or at the most two, Briony Lodges in Serpentine Avenue, St John’s Wood.’

  ‘If you do find another, just send her to me,’ piped up George.

  ‘Do not be base and uncouth, George,’ Harris and I said in unison.

  Then Boots was at the door again, announcing another visitor.

  ‘Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard,’ the boy boomed self-importantly.

  I nodded, settled back into my chair, and readied myself with my church-steeple finger pose. People whose views I respect in such matters have told me that it shows off my noble and superior profile to best advantage. Harris took up a position behind my chair, and from his hurried fidgeting I guessed he was adopting what he calls his ‘l’Empereur’ pose: one hand extended along the back of a chair, the other thrust Napoleon-style into his jacket. He looks quite ludicrous doing this, but he will brook no criticism. Some irresponsible halfwit once told him it makes him appear superior—noble, indeed. Harris is so easily flattered. George simply opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, like a fish, trying to say words that would not come: ‘My God, it’s the police!’

  Lestrade was a man of commanding height and barrel-chested with it. His sunburnt face and close-cropped white hair gave him the appearance of a bronze statue in a pigeon-loft. He spoke with a familiar, thick, rather guttural accent that I could not for the moment place. He was accompanied by an equally imposing constable, a surly cuss who refused a seat when offered. My sitting-room suddenly seemed a much smaller place.

  ‘Mr Jerome?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘The same,’ I replied, without rising.

  ‘Mr Jerome Jerome?’ he asked as he took his seat.