“I can see that,” Holmes said, straight-faced.
“You are alluding to Art’s former fiancée, the late Lucy Westenra, I suppose. Well, it is true, of course, one can never really recover from a loss like that. But I am here to pick up the pieces; I love him, and he me, and I give him the care he needs.” A flicker of sadness crossed her flawless features, but evaporated in an instant.
“You are his nurse as well as his wife,” Holmes said. It was not a question.
“A wife has many duties, Mr Holmes.”
“Is Lord Godalming attended by a physician?”
“There is no need. Besides, some things require a more tender touch, don’t you think?” There was something strange about her manner when she replied, but I could not decipher it.
Mainwaring returned, carrying a tray of tea. He placed it down, and Lady Godalming dismissed him. I saw Holmes scrutinising the butler closely as he left the room.
“I hear you do tricks, Mr Holmes.”
“Tricks, Lady Godalming?”
“Call me Genevieve.”
“I am sorry, Lady Godalming, but I would rather not. Over-familiarity can be a distraction in my business.”
Some other expression played upon her features then. Annoyance, perhaps, and one I could empathise with after my own long association with Sherlock Holmes. But like her sadness, it was gone just as quickly, replaced by something more mischievous.
“Tricks,” she repeated. “You can tell everything there is to know about people, just by looking at them.”
“There is no trick, Lady Godalming. My method relies purely on observation, on things that most would discount as trifles. I make educated guesses, little else. Those guesses just happen to be right, most of the time.”
“What can you tell of me, Mr Holmes?”
“I would not be so presumptuous.”
“I insist.” She darted to her feet and moved over to Holmes sinuously, like a cat approaching a canary.
“Holmes,” I warned, sounding as cheerful as I could. I knew he would never turn down a challenge, but I also knew that he rarely shied away from telling the truth. In this case, I was not sure that would be wise—even I intuited a strange feeling about Genevieve Holmwood, and it was not altogether favourable.
“Very well.” Holmes closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were fixed on Lady Godalming’s. “You are an ambitious young woman. You are well educated, and have certainly never been without comforts, though you were not born into great wealth. I expect you had an occupation once, and would not be surprised to learn that you worked in the theatre in some capacity. You have known Lord Godalming much longer than most people think, as you were acquainted with his late friend, the Texan Quincey Morris. Your reaction to that name tells me not only that I am right, but that you perhaps once harboured feelings for the brave Mr Morris. You are also acquainted with one Professor Abraham Van Helsing, who, if I am not mistaken, has visited here quite recently. Did he mention me, I wonder?”
“Why should he?” A look of indignation came over Lady Godalming, and then annoyance—probably at herself for confirming Holmes’s last, rather wild speculation. Again, her expression cooled so swiftly it looked as though she had practised it. “Bravo, Mr Holmes. You are correct, on all but one point.”
“Which is?”
“First tell me how you did it, and then I shall teach you how not to make the same mistake again.”
I groaned inwardly, but Holmes merely smiled thinly and bowed. “Of course, my lady. I called you ambitious, a simple and obvious guess of a young woman who has risen so high up the social strata. You wear pearls even in the house, privately, because you are proud of them; they are a symbol of your achievements. I say you were not born into wealth and title, because a lady born would never curtsey to a lower-ranked gentleman, not even Sherlock Holmes, although it may well be a long-formed habit of an aspiring heiress out to impress. You are well educated, this is evident from your manner, but also by your bearing and enunciation. It is learned, not inherited; you have the measured step of a finishing-school girl, and a slight burr on the vowels that, though well disguised, I would take for Yorkshire, were I pressed. Your ability to mask your emotions, to project your voice, and your lightness of step, coupled with your confident bearing all suggest time spent on the stage, a fact confirmed to me by your hairstyling and make-up, which have evidently been administered without the aid of a lady’s maid, and rather expertly, I might say. Added to that your tendency for fun and mild gossip would spring most naturally from evenings spent in the company of girls, doubtless in the chorus-line dressing room, and your unconventional ease of manner around gentlemen, particularly older ones, suggest that you have been used to patrons, directors, stage-hands and managers passing through that dressing room.
“I said that you knew Quincey P. Morris—I confess this was conjecture on my part, which was solely down to the fact that you call Lord Godalming ‘Art’ as, I believe, did the Texan. However, when you do so it is with a softening of the accent, almost in homage to the man. I overstretched when I suggested some deeper feeling, and for that I apologise; and yet your reaction, quickly covered with the guile of an actress, confirmed my speculations. Really, it was all quite straightforward.”
“And Professor Van Helsing?” Lady Godalming said coolly.
“Given the professor’s well-known fondness for your husband, and his equally well-known high opinion of his own abilities, he would allow no one else to attend to Lord Godalming, save perhaps Dr Seward, who is currently engaged at Purfleet Asylum. That, and the cigars in the ashtray over by the window, rather sloppily left by the maid this morning, would suggest he was here as recently as yesterday. The professor is known to smoke cigars; your husband doubtless would not in his present condition, and I doubt you are entertaining often with the house in its current out-of-season state. If you would be so kind, Lady Godalming,” Holmes said, “would you educate me in the details I misread? My method relies on continual correction.”
“You said I was in the chorus line, Mr Holmes—that does me a great disservice. During my time in the theatre I had my own dressing room, I’ll have you know. I was, however, engaged as an artist’s model for a time. Can’t you tell? Aren’t I just the very image of the Rokeby Venus?” She gave a sly wink in my direction, which I confess made me more uncomfortable than I already was, if that were possible. “Perhaps that is what accounts for my comfortable manner around gentlemen,” she concluded.
I was relieved when there came a quiet knock at the door, and Mainwaring appeared.
“M’lady, his lordship is ready to receive our… guests.”
“Good,” Lady Godalming replied. “Then we had better go up, to see what tricks Sherlock Holmes can perform for poor Art.”
* * *
Whatever I had expected to see upon meeting Lord Godalming, I could not have prepared myself. The Dracula Papers had painted a picture of a vigorous man who would now be but thirty years old, who had been on many adventures with the equally athletic Quincey Morris, and had played sports with Dr Seward. The fellow who lay now beneath an excessive number of bedclothes for the season, in a stuffy, panelled room reduced to almost total darkness by thick curtains, was a shadow of that portrayal. Arthur Holmwood was now every bit as frail as I had heard, and more besides. His skin had a ghastly pallor about it, his hair prematurely greying, and the purple bags beneath his eyes would give even Holmes’s a run for their money. His forehead was beaded with sweat, and he appeared to find it a great exertion to do anything for himself. I confess to feeling a certain dread at approaching his bedside, for his pallid complexion, dark eyes and cracked red lips put me in mind of Mina Harker’s description of the vampire count himself. The stench of sickliness hung about the room, barely masked by a faint floral odour, although I could see no flowers about.
Holmes perhaps saw my reticence to approach the sick-bed, and as a medical man I felt ashamed when he stepped forward boldly an
d bowed to the invalid peer.
“Lord Godalming, I am most pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate Dr Watson. We are here to ask a few questions about a case we are investigating, and would be most appreciative if your lordship could assist us.”
“Q… questions?” Lord Godalming’s voice was a thin, papery rasp, a winter’s breeze through a hollow. It was followed by a quiet, dry cough, as though the effort of speech was too much for him. I thought it quite possible that Lord Godalming was a victim to the same anaemia that had troubled his late fiancée.
“Mr Holmes is a detective, my darling,” Lady Godalming said, her voice soft and melodic. “He is investigating… oh, that is curious, I rather forgot to ask. Just what are you investigating, Mr Holmes?” Her question was delivered with a flourish of rather insincere interest.
“The death, under mysterious circumstances, of one Lucy Westenra.”
Holmes delivered this story with a straight face and cold eyes. Genevieve Holmwood’s eyes widened just a little. It was almost all I could do not to cough and splutter at Holmes’s sheer audacity—Lord Godalming, on the other hand, did exactly that, hacking and groaning like a man gasping for his last breath.
“Really, Mr Holmes,” Lady Godalming said after an exasperated pause, “such a thing is not for my husband’s ears at this time.”
“Then whose ears are they for, my lady?” Holmes said, his barbed words oozing cordiality. “There are many details of my investigation that require clarification, and his lordship is the only man living who can provide the answers we seek.”
Lady Godalming began to speak, but Holmes cut her off at once, addressing the bed-ridden viscount directly.
“Lord Godalming, I have read the Dracula Papers as part of my ongoing enquiries into the death of poor Miss Westenra, and I know that you loved the girl dearly. As such, I am certain you will want to help us as much as you are able.”
“I… I…” Lord Godalming croaked, gasping for air. And then he ceased to struggle, and simply nodded.
“Thank you, my lord,” Holmes said. “I understand that this is painful, but I would like to take you back to when you first met Professor Van Helsing at Lucy’s bedside. Did it not strike you as odd that her family physician had not been consulted first?”
Lord Godalming seemed quite confused, but made a concerted effort to respond. “I… no. Jack…”
“Jack Seward?”
“Yes. Seward. He… vouched for the professor… as an expert.”
“An expert in blood diseases?”
Lord Godalming nodded.
“In anaemia?”
“No. In more… unusual diseases.”
“Ah, so, my lord, do you know whether or not Lucy Westenra was ever treated for any more commonplace condition. Say, anaemia?”
He shook his head.
“No she was not, or no, you do not know?” Holmes persisted.
“I… do not believe so. But why would she…” He stopped, shoulders sagging, struggling for breath. He appeared frustrated and upset in equal measure. “You cannot understand.”
“Understand what? Vampires?” Holmes asked. “Or the vagaries of medical malpractice?”
“How dare you?” Genevieve said, though she lacked conviction, I thought. “Professor Van Helsing has been like a father to Art. Might I remind you that he is a respected professional?”
“Ah yes, a professional medical practitioner, and a professional lawyer, also,” said Holmes. “Did the good professor have any hand in the legal affairs of the two Westenra women? By which, I mean Miss Lucy and her mother?”
“How would I know?”
“Lord Godalming?”
The man in the bed shrugged weakly. He looked as though he might faint.
“It is just that the legal circumstances surrounding the dissolution of the Westenra family’s many holdings are most curious. That his lordship should benefit so richly from the will of the elder Mrs Westenra, when he and Lucy had not married, is of singular interest to a detective. I believe Mrs Westenra’s solicitor, Mr Marquand, of Wholeman, Sons, Marquand & Lidderdale, expressed great concern over the transactional nature of the settlement. I suppose it was lucky for the ‘Crew of Light’ that they counted amongst their number a solicitor – Harker.”
Lord Godalming began to cough incessantly. Genevieve Holmwood set her jaw and stared directly into Holmes’s eyes.
“Mr Holmes, on this one occasion I will grace your impudence with a reply. Mr Marquand himself gave Professor Van Helsing his blessing, and agreed to his consent being published in the Dracula Papers, as I am sure you are well aware.”
“Thank you for clarifying the matter, Lady Godalming,” said Holmes. “Your testimony is most valuable, given that Professor Van Helsing saw fit to confiscate the legal documents. Thankfully, you are remarkably well informed considering the delicate, private nature of the proceedings.” Holmes smiled—his audacity never ceased to amaze me. His display of insincere charm was worthy of the stage.
During the exchange, Lord Godalming’s coughing had increased in severity and regularity, and Lady Godalming had made no move towards him. With no servants on hand, I went to his side.
“This man should be in a hospital,” I said.
“Impossible. Art is in no state to travel,” Lady Godalming said. “Besides, Professor Van Helsing assures me he is on the mend.”
“On the mend?” I asked, exasperated. “What exactly is the professor’s diagnosis?”
“Oh, it is far too complicated for me to understand. Some nervous disorder due to the great constitutional shock poor Art received at the hands of Count Dracula.”
I stood upright. It sounded to me like quackery, and I saw the look in Holmes’s eyes clearly. I knew I had his support.
“That, my lady, is impossible,” I said. “The first thing this man needs is good clean air.”
I marched at once to the window, aware that Lady Godalming had begun to protest, and that her husband had become rather distressed. I pulled the curtains aside, allowing light to stream into the room. I stopped in disbelief even as Lord Godalming’s piteous cries and his wife’s angry rebuke reached my ears.
The great sash windows were fastened shut with large iron nails, and hanging from the frames were dozens of posies of dried garlic flowers. I turned to face the viscount and his wife.
Lord Godalming had almost fallen from the bed, and was shielding his eyes from the sun. Lady Godalming ran to his side, and then fixed me with a look of fury.
“Get out!” she cried. “Both of you—get out!”
The door opened and the butler entered. He ushered us from the room. I could tell at once that the man was eager to frog-march us bodily from the house, but it was not necessary. Holmes strode along the corridor and down the stairs, but stopped abruptly on the lower landing. He looked up at the portraits that lined the wall, studying them intently.
The butler was clearly considering wrestling Holmes down the stairs when his mistress flew from the bedroom, appearing on the landing above us.
“Didn’t you hear me?” she screeched, her accent slipping into what Holmes had astutely recognised as a northern one. “Get out!”
* * *
“Well, a fine result,” I grumbled as our carriage moved off down the gravel drive. “I half expect to find us ruined by morning. I wonder, Holmes, if we might have gleaned more had you not earlier insulted Lady Godalming with your… indelicate observations.” I was still bristling from the manner of our exit from Ring, while Holmes simply assumed a demeanour of relaxation, leaning back in his seat and lighting a cigarette; his nonchalance was infuriating.
“Indelicate?” Holmes appeared amused. “Watson, if I were being indelicate I would not have masked my deductions with falsehoods. I should have told her the true observations I had made.”
“Which were?”
“That a woman who would greet two strange gentlemen with no appointment, in person, while wearin
g nothing but a casual dress and a house-coat is no lady born. She had time to prepare for us; no lady would feel obliged to meet us in such a fluster, and the butler could have simply instructed us to wait. Her attire and manner were chosen very carefully for our benefit. Second, the hint of Yorkshire accent I detected in her voice is particular to the coastal towns of Whitby and Scarborough. This leads me to believe that she not only knew of Miss Lucy Westenra, but possibly met her during Lord Godalming’s courtship of the deceased lady. I would have said that there were two cigars in that ashtray, one of which had the faintest trace of pomade upon it, and was undoubtedly smoked by Lady Godalming—a rather unladylike habit, probably picked up from her association with Quincey Morris—and that the reason Van Helsing’s cigar was still in the ashtray was because the house is in ruin, bereft of servants. There was not even a maid-of-all-work present to clear the ashtrays, open the curtains, air the room or light the fires. When we arrived, no groom was on hand to see to our carriage. The butler himself greeted us at the door, rather than the footman, and that same butler served us tea.”
Holmes took a long, imperious draw on his cigarette to indicate that he was done, and doubtless most pleased with himself to boot. I would have challenged him, perhaps due to some misplaced impulsion to defend Lady Godalming’s virtue, but I thought better of it. I had noticed the woman’s brazen manner from the moment I’d laid eyes on her—how could I have failed to? And the lack of servants had played on my mind since we had arrived at Ring. When Holmes stated it, it was like scales had fallen from my eyes.
“How can they be so poor if they have seized the Westenra estate?” I asked. “Unless they have sent all the servants away in order to conceal their collusion with Van Helsing.”
“Van Helsing has been exonerated, nay, honoured, Watson. No subterfuge from mere servants would be necessary. There are no servants here because they are destitute.”
“Holmes, how can that be? This house is palatial! The Westenra estate at Hillingham is worth a fortune in itself.”
Sherlock Holmes--A Betrayal in Blood Page 4