Our carriage had rolled to a stop. A liveried young man with an open face and eager expression ran up and opened the door. He greeted us with a deep bow: ‘Welcome, my lord. And Dr Laurel. Jeffrey, at your service. May we assist you from the carriage?’
With help from several footmen in carrying Holmes in his wheelchair up the steps, we made it to the imposing oak doors. There we were met by a tall, elegant butler, who introduced himself as Mason. ‘Welcome to Clighton, my lord,’ he said, inclining his head slightly.
Mason managed to be both respectful and intimidating at the same time and I sensed he was making a quick and thorough study, his eyes sweeping discreetly over our faces, clothing, demeanour – all without seeming to do so. I was heartily glad that my false persona was so similar to my own. My dress was correct, then, down to my shoes.
Holmes and his brother had taken great care with Prendergast’s clothing, and I was profoundly grateful. As Holmes had often remarked, to the careful observer, clothing is a reliable signal of class, profession and attitude. In the eyes of the upper classes and their servants, it fairly shouted its messages.
I next wheeled Holmes through the imposing entrance and into the grand reception hall. One entered by the old portion of the estate and into the great hall, where a sense of history struck one like an axe. It was in medieval style, possibly dating to the late 1400s, and was huge, with timbers resting on a low stone wall. The flagged floor was uneven in places, though worn smooth in the well-trod areas by hundreds of years of foot traffic. Overhead five hammer beams crossed the space, ending in carved angels which stared down on the activity below with cherubic amusement.
There was a dank smell to the place, and although every inch was polished clean, hundreds of years of fires in the vast fireplace at one end, and hundreds of dinners and balls filled with unwashed bodies lent a strangely haunted and smoky air.
‘This portion of the house is over four hundred years old,’ said Mason. ‘It is little used now, except for large gatherings. I will have Jeffrey escort you to your rooms in the newer wing, where you will find a small refreshment after your journey and may change at your leisure. Supper will be served in one hour in the Grand Dining Hall, and Jeffrey will return to collect you then.’
‘Oh, a Titian!’ exclaimed Holmes as I wheeled him behind Mason into the newer wing. ‘Stop here!’ He regarded the painting with avid interest. ‘A magnificent example. Similar to The Man with a Glove, acquired by the French after our unfortunate Charles I lost his head, only this one is better. A few years later, I observe. Very few portraits by Titian are extant. I expected no less of the Earl,’ he remarked. ‘Where is he, by the way?’
‘He is presently resting, and will greet you at dinner,’ said the butler, refusing to elaborate. ‘But that acquisition was his father’s, the late Earl,’ added Mason stiffly. He, too regarded it with admiration. ‘What you will observe in the older house and in part in the later wing is the father’s collection. The present Earl has placed all of his own, newer acquisitions in the Palladium Hall, under lock and key.’
I thought I caught the slightest hint of resentment there and wondered why.
‘Your lordship will be the first person outside the family to view the collection in its entirety.’
‘An honour,’ exclaimed Holmes in the nasal, high-pitched voice he had created for Prendergast. ‘I anticipate it with great pleasure. And now, I require a short rest before supper.’
The butler rang for the footman. He then said in a low tone, ‘I believe you have signed an agreement with the Earl not to disclose what you see here? I feel it my duty to ask, my lord. The Earl has much on his mind of late.’
I wondered at the propriety of a butler asking such a question of his respected guest, and Holmes rose to the occasion. His face instantly became a mask of disdain. ‘That is a private matter,’ he said coldly. ‘I wish to retire and rest now.’
‘As you wish, my lord,’ said Mason.
In a moment we were escorted into adjoining rooms, the footman Jeffrey assisting us with our belongings.
Holmes positioned himself by the window, staring out into the darkness, the elms of the long driveway barely visible against the blue field of snow. Jeffrey and I unpacked the valises and hung our garments in each of the two bedrooms.
‘Anything else, my lord, or … sir?’ he asked.
‘No, thank you,’ I said, eager for him to leave.
‘Boy,’ Holmes said. ‘There is one thing. I need expert assistance. My good boots have been damaged during travel. Who among the staff is best fit to help me?’
‘My lord, I can polish them for you,’ Jeffrey offered.
‘No!’ cried Holmes and the boy jumped. ‘These are very fine boots from Italy. I require an expert in the care of leather.’ The boy looked nervously about him, not knowing what to say.
But Holmes knew how to put a servant at ease. He wheeled forward. ‘Young man,’ he said kindly, pressing a coin into the boy’s hand, ‘your assistance would be very appreciated. Surely there is one man, above all here, who knows leather best?’
‘The Earl’s valet, Pomeroy, does,’ said Jeffrey. ‘It is a special skill, yes, my lord. I’ll send him to you the moment he is free.’
‘Excellent,’ said Holmes.
As soon as Jeffrey had left, he turned to me in triumph. ‘We bring our suspect right to us,’ he smiled. ‘The man who used a tanner’s knife to threaten our client surely knows his leather.’
CHAPTER 16
Repairs Needed
few minutes later, a shy rap at the door revealed a dark-haired, pale young man, meaty in build, not quite thirty and with an honest face. Clad in formal livery, he exuded a solid reliability. He introduced himself as Pomeroy. We welcomed him and Holmes presented him with a single very fine boot, which he’d purposely damaged with a buttonhook.
Pomeroy took the boot in his hand and examined it closely.
‘It is unfortunate, my lord,’ he said. ‘This is a deep scratch. But I may be able to help you.’
‘Watson, lock the door,’ said Holmes. ‘And now Mr Pomeroy, kindly place the boot on the floor. We have called you here for another reason entirely.’
Pomeroy looked up in surprise.
‘It is in regard to Emil,’ said Holmes, ‘the Earl’s son. We understand you were to bring him to Brown’s this Christmas for the meeting with his mother, Miss Emmeline La Victoire – whom you possibly know by the name of Cherie Cerise – but that the reunion was cancelled.
‘I— I—’ stammered the valet, backing away.
‘We have been told the boy has been “away” for some time.’
‘I know nothing of this, sir!’ the valet managed. His voice rose in pitch to a whispered wail. ‘Please!’
‘Put your mind at rest. If you tell us what we need to know, we will not reveal your secret. But we know you are complicit. Where is Emil?’
‘Who are you?’ he stammered.
Holmes sighed. ‘My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr Watson. We are here to help you … and Emil, and on behalf of Mademoiselle La Victoire. But reveal us at your peril. Where is the boy now?’
‘Emil?’ said the man stupidly. ‘Sir, really, I know nothing.’
Holmes’s demeanour changed. ‘Dammit, man! Where were you last Wednesday evening?’
‘I … I … was here!’ Pomeroy attempted to bolt for the door. I stood in front of it, blocking his escape.
‘Will your young lady confirm this?’ asked Holmes.
Pomeroy blanched.
‘Yes, the chambermaid with the blonde curls?’
Ah, so Pomeroy and this girl were the two Holmes spotted on our way in.
‘Nellie! How did you—? Oh, please, sir—’
‘I believe you were in Paris, were you not? Does this look familiar to you?’ With that, Holmes withdrew a strange implement, a “ladle with a sharp edge” as described by Mlle La Victoire, and held it to Pomeroy’s face. A tanner’s dry scraper. He must have procured
it in London with this moment in mind.
It was a touch dramatic, I thought, but it had the intended effect.
Pomeroy groaned and his knees buckled. I caught him as he sank, and sat him down.
‘You threatened Mademoiselle La Victoire. Why? And what have you done with her son?’
‘I would never hurt the lady,’ said the man, his eyes filling with tears. ‘She is … a lovely woman. And she loves her boy. I only wanted to warn her.’
‘As I thought. Why?’
‘She is a strong person. I was afraid she would try to find Emil. And if she did – I only wanted to help them both. She loves him so!’
‘You meant well,’ I offered, patting his shoulder.
‘Watson, please!’ said Holmes. ‘And was it your idea to hide the boy in London? To kidnap him, so to speak?’
‘No! I would never! It was his mother’s idea.’ Seeing our confusion, or at least mine, he continued: ‘Lady Pellingham, I mean. She asked me to help.’
‘Both Lord and Lady Pellingham seem to rely upon you to a remarkable degree,’ remarked Holmes dryly. ‘How is it that you were entrusted with the welfare of this child ten years ago? You must have been, what, eighteen, or nineteen?’
Pomeroy hung his head. ‘I rescued the family dog from a snare and nursed him back to health,’ he said.
Holmes stared at him harshly.
‘And a few other favours. Since that time, I—’
‘Yes, yes. Were either the Earl or Lady Pellingham privy to your yearly visits with the boy’s real mother?’
Pomeroy blanched. ‘His lordship, only,’ he replied. ‘The Lady was told it was to attend to personal purchases, clothing, Christmas gifts, and the like.’
‘She allowed a baby, and then a toddler to travel to London on a shopping excursion?’ asked Holmes in disbelief.
‘Er … that was later. His lordship said that he also wanted the boy to be examined each half year by his London physician.’
‘Hmm. But why hide him now?’ I asked.
‘We are getting to that, Watson,’ snapped Holmes. He turned to Pomeroy, ‘Where is the child?’
Pomeroy’s face worked through a variety of emotions. Finally he spoke. ‘He is in London, sir. Safe.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘With my sister and her husband.’
‘Charles and Merielle Eagleton?’
‘Yes. How did—’
‘The knife. A tanner’s. In Bermondsey?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did Lady Pellingham ask you to hide the boy?’ demanded Holmes, raising his voice.
‘Shh!’ I hissed.
‘She … my lady … told me there was danger here. Nellie and I feels it, too.’
‘Danger of what sort? Details, man!’ said Holmes.
‘Lady Pellingham did not say. It is not my place to question her, sir.’
‘Obviously. But you have observed something. Describe it.’
Pomeroy began to shake. Holmes stood over him, leaning in, willing the answers.
‘Nellie noticed it first. Emil has, well, changed recently. He was always a sunny child – chatty, friendly. A reader. But lately he stopped smiling. And he … stopped talking.’
‘Did the Earl remark upon this?’ asked Holmes.
‘I am not certain that he noticed, sir,’ said the young man. ‘He has much on his mind—’
There was a rap at the door. Pomeroy jumped and we all froze.
‘My lord?’ It was the butler. ‘Is the Earl’s valet with you?’
‘He is,’ called Holmes in his high-pitched Prendergast voice. ‘I called him about my boots.’ Then, sotto voce, he said to Pomeroy, ‘We will continue this after dinner. Speak not a word of this, or we will reveal you.’
Pomeroy nodded numbly.
‘I trust he has been of assistance?’ came Mason’s voice.
Holmes waved, dismissing the terrified valet. Pomeroy wiped his tears and took a shaky breath. He started for the door, forgetting the boot. I caught his sleeve and handed it to him. He took it with relief and opened the door. Mason glared down at Pomeroy.
‘Well?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Pomeroy said. ‘I can help the gentleman, sir.’
The butler eyed him carefully, and then let him pass. He lingered at the entrance to our rooms. Seeing we were not yet dressed for dinner, he raised an eyebrow.
‘I am instructed to escort you to dinner. Do you require assistance dressing? I can send someone.’
‘Thank you, we can manage,’ I said.
‘I shall await you in the hall,’ said the butler. ‘It is quite easy to become lost in this house,’ he added.
He closed the door behind us. ‘Dammit,’ whispered Holmes. ‘After dinner, we must lose this insidious butler and continue our conversation with Pomeroy. Now, quickly, get dressed; then come have a look at something.’
‘He’s waiting for us, Holmes!’ I said.
‘Remember that I am “paralysed”. Dressing takes time. But hurry!’
‘This Mason – he is glued to us,’ I mused, as I began to corral my evening dress. ‘Do you think he suspects?’
‘No. The white tie, Watson, not that one. He is a natural watchdog, loyal to the family above all. The Earl is vulnerable in the subject of his art acquisitions. I will be the first to see them. He is being wary, that’s all.’
‘I guess …’
‘You may guess but I do not. Hurry, man. The “bull terrier” awaits.’
I moved into my adjoining room and changed rapidly into my evening wear. But Holmes was faster, and when I returned to him, he was dressed and ready, with a large paper unfolded across his bed, gesturing for me to look. It was a detailed plan of the house.
‘How did Mycroft obtain this?’ I wondered at the resourcefulness of the Holmes brothers. ‘Nothing must have been safe in your parents’ home!’
Holmes did not bother to reply. ‘It truly is a maze,’ he said gesturing at the map. ‘Look closely, Watson.’
‘How can this help us now? You can’t be seen walking about.’
He sighed. ‘No. But you can.’
I turned my attention to the page. It was a warren of passageways and odd rooms. We studied it for a few minutes, Mason be damned, and then headed down to dinner, with the butler in the lead.
CHAPTER 17
In the Bosom of the Family
hortly after, the butler accompanied us through many twists and turns to the grand dining hall. The old house did not easily accommodate the wheelchair and it took some time.
Arriving at the dining hall, Mason turned to me and announced, ‘I will take care of Lord Prendergast for you, Doctor. You may dine with the staff, or if you wish, I will send supper to your room.’
I was considered a servant, then! I felt my jaw clench.
‘Mason,’ said Holmes sharply. ‘The Doctor is not my servant, but my trusted friend and colleague, and a decorated war hero. What you suggest is unthinkable. He will dine with me, or we will not dine at all.’
Mason swallowed his surprise and bowed graciously. Prendergast, after all, was a baron.
‘As you wish, my lord. I will so inform the Earl.’ He turned and gave quick orders to one of the staff to set one more place at table.
The dining room was enormous, with deep wood panelling, and a row of paintings on both sides. The table was laden with enough china, crystal and silver to equal in value a medium-sized villa in Mayfair. Six places had been set. Candles were lit and the flames sent flickering highlights across the glittering display.
We were invited to wait at one end of this room, where drinks were set out. A servant poured us each sherry. Holmes noticed a tall, rather disturbing portrait behind the sideboard. ‘What a lovely Géricault!’ he wheezed excitedly. ‘Reminds one of the portraits he completed in the insane asylum. One in particular, Portrait of a Kleptomaniac!’
The servant pouring our drinks started and moved away quickly, conferring with the butler. I leaned in to Holmes an
d whispered, ‘You strain credibility! And for what purpose?’
‘I assure you, everything I say is real,’ he said with a sly smile. ‘There is in fact such a portrait!’
The eagle-eyed butler moved around the table, adjusting the settings with precision, while throwing us an occasional glance. He was probably counting the silverware. Portrait of a Kleptomaniac indeed.
We continued to wait, with drinks in hand, for the Earl.
Five minutes passed. More servants entered and aligned themselves against the dark panelled walls. Behind them additional gloomy portraits hung, all staring dolefully into the room. Footsteps were muffled in the thick carpet. The wealth of many generations hung in the air like a layer of fine dust.
In spite of my curiosity about the Earl, I feared it would be a long evening. I stifled a yawn.
The side door to the dining room opened with a bang, startling the servants, who rearranged themselves immediately. A short but powerfully muscled and well-padded man, perhaps fifty, ruddy of cheek, and with an open, friendly face, blew into the room with the force of a small gale. ‘Baron!’ he shouted. Approaching Holmes he extended his hand, a broad grin making him look like an overgrown and enthusiastic child. ‘Welcome to our humble little abode,’ he boomed, and laughed at his own joke.
An American. Lady Pellingham’s father, no doubt.
‘Mr Strothers, I presume,’ said Holmes faintly, with the remoteness of a baron who spent his days in a museum. ‘A pleasure, I am sure.’ He shook the man’s hand, limply.
‘You’ve got that right, I’m Daniel G. Strothers, of New York and New Jersey. My friends call me Danny. Came over for the wedding.’
‘And you have decided to stay, then?’ said I.
‘My daughter insisted. Made myself useful too, and by golly if I don’t love it up here! My son-in-law has been trying to educate me in the finer things of life. But it’s a losing battle, I’m afraid.’
Holmes smiled politely.
‘I hear you’re a real expert on art,’ Strothers continued. ‘Guess you have plenty of time to study being stuck in that chair. What happened?’
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