by Geri Schear
“How long would you estimate the woman has been dead?” I asked him.
The doctor examined the woman’s limbs and jaw. “About eight hours, by now,” he said. “Give or take.”
“Which puts time of death around three o’clock this morning. Rather early to begin work, don’t you think? And these shoes have clear traces of mud on them. It is the same mud as I have observed around the grounds of the manor.”
“Meaning what?” asked the inspector.
I glanced at Watson. “Meaning she was outside in the middle of the night,” he said.
“Precisely,” I said. “More than that, it suggests, does it not, that Derby had just returned to her room from her excursion outdoors when she was murdered?”
“But what are we to make of that, Mr Holmes?” The Inspector looked bewildered.
“We cannot say just yet. But these are, at least, points of interest and may prove to be key in solving this little puzzle.”
There was nothing else to be gleaned, and so Watson and I elected to walk back to the house. By the time we began our approach along the distasteful drive, my glee at my discovery of the woman’s shoes and her mysterious night-time excursion had already faded.
There was so much that room and that woman’s body might have told me, and they had been rendered mute, either through stupidity or malice. Either way, it mattered not; the end result was the same. I had sunk back into a bottomless silence. Watson’s voice cut into my reverie.
“Don’t worry, Holmes,” he said. “You’ll solve it.”
“How can you be so sure?” I asked.
“Because you always do.”
6
I must confess my success in my chosen field owes much to friend Watson’s unshakable faith. While it is not, in my opinion, always justified, it remains as resolute as the man himself. Often, when faced with an apparently impossible case, I have laboured on simply because I could not bear the thought of disappointing him. Not that I would ever confess such a trite and sentimental notion out loud, of course.
This case seemed particularly difficult for although I had a number of avenues to explore, I had none of the points of interest that generally sets my cases apart from the banal. None, that is, but the shoes. I amused myself by pondering what Watson would term this case in his annals: The Case of the Expensive Brogues, perhaps.
When we returned to the manor I asked to meet with all of the occupants, starting with the servants.
“It is decidedly chilly,” I told Reynolds. “Can we have a fire?”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” he said, smirking. “His Lordship does not allow fires in the house unless it is really cold.”
“Really cold?” Watson spluttered. “I can see my breath, man.”
“House rules, I’m afraid. I do apologise.”
The odious creature looked positively smug at our discomfort. There was nothing for it but to sit at the library table with our coats on. Greer, with an odd mix of pleasure and nerves, sat with us. I glanced at Watson who said, “I have seen Holmes conduct these sort of interviews any number of times, Inspector. I find even the slightest word can be revealing.”
“Oh yes,” Greer said, breathlessly. “That is my experience too.”
It is testimony to my forbearance, I think, that I did not roll my eyes.
Stifling his amusement admirably, Watson replied, “It’s an education to me to just sit and watch.”
To be fair, the man understood Watson’s meaning at once. “Oh I shall say nothing, not a thing, Mr Holmes. You may count on me.”
“I have no doubt of it, my dear Inspector,” said I. Watson really does not give me enough credit sometimes. I am very gentle when it is warranted.
One by one the servants came to the library to answer my questions. Watson took notes and Greer sat in a state of commendable silence while I conducted my interviews.
The butler, Reynolds, came first. He is a cold and austere retainer with no information. A little man, both in stature and in personality. I suspect he could tell us quite a lot if he chose, but he is unquestionably his master’s man, and his master does not approve of our presence.
Next came Miss Simms, the housekeeper. She is a middle-aged woman, about forty, with an iron spine and hair to match. Though unsettled by the violent death of one of her staff, I found her to be thoughtful and intelligent.
She sat before me with her gnarled hands in her lap. Observing her, it occurred to me that I must write a monograph on hands. So much can be learned from them: occupation, interests and even illness can be gleaned by the keen observer.
Miss Simms’s hands belie her otherwise quite youthful appearance. Her fingers are hideously disfigured from arthritis. She wears no jewellery, but a depression at the base of her marriage finger indicates that at one time it bore a ring. That she is still a ‘Miss’ suggests that the ring was either her mother’s wedding ring - unlikely as women tend to wear these items on the right hand, presumably so not to dissuade interested young men from making offers of matrimony, and they also would be unlikely to remove such an object– or, more likely, it was a promise of marriage that failed to materialise. A woman disappointed in love, then.
I believe her to be truthful if understandably guarded in how she discussed the household.
The dead woman, Simms said, had been employed by her eight weeks earlier. Liz Derby had been sent by one of those agencies that provide domestic help for the better English homes, and she had arrived with excellent references. Miss Simms had hired her on the spot and the woman commenced employment the following day.
“That was swift, was it not?” I asked. “Surely she had to work out her notice at her previous place of employment?”
Miss Simms flushed. “She explained that she had to leave her last employer rather suddenly because her mother had taken ill and needed care. However, her circumstances did not allow her to remain idle for long. Though her mother was not completely well, they could no longer afford to do without an income.”
“And you needed someone urgently?”
“Quite so. The previous girl, Letty, had fallen... into a spot of bother.”
“You mean she was pregnant?” Watson said.
Miss Simms nodded. “As soon as it became apparent she was summoned to Sir Christopher and he discharged her on the spot.”
“And where is she now?” I asked.
“Dead, sir. She hanged herself. Awful, it was.”
The good woman dabbed her eyes with a crisp white handkerchief and I saw Watson was much moved.
“It is deplorable that no help is available for young women in these straits, Holmes,” he said. “It’s just criminal! Did the child’s father not have the means to aid her?”
“She never said who it was...” the crisp handkerchief was becoming mangled in the woman’s fingers.
“But you know, do you not?” I suggested in my most lethargic manner.
Miss Simms stammered, “I cannot think what you mean, Mr Holmes.”
“You need not speak his name, merely nod your head if I am correct: Sir Christopher?”
She bit her lip and nodded.
“O sir, you mustn’t say anything. I have no proof and only a suspicion. It would mean the sack if he heard I was speaking ill of him. Indeed, it could mean gaol for slander.”
“You may count upon our discretion,” I said. “I take it there have been others?”
She nodded again. “But still, I have no proof, only a glance, a whispered word... it’s the way he looks at these girls, sir. There’s something... unsavoury about it.”
“And one of the reasons you hired Miss Derby was because she was neither young nor pretty. She would prove no enticement to your employer.”
“There, sir, I heard you were a clever man.”
“
And Miss Derby: what sort of woman was she?”
Again the hesitancy. “It is unchristian, Mr Holmes, to speak ill of the dead, and to be truthful I know of no harm in the girl, but I confess I did not care for her.”
“Can you tell me why, Miss Simms? Come, you are used to dealing with staff. There must have been something that disquieted you?”
She measured her words carefully before she replied.
“I have worked for Lady Summerville for twelve years, Mr Holmes, and in all that time there was never any trouble. However, since that girl came here it seems there has been nothing but.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the dismissal of Mavis, the young maid who was discharged for theft.”
“You did not think she was the thief?”
“No, sir, I did not. She’d worked here for nearly five years and was as sober and continent as any young girl should be. She worked hard and I never had cause to censure her.”
“And you believe she was incapable of this theft?”
“To be frank, Mr Holmes, the girl, hard worker though she was, just wasn’t intelligent enough to steal. She was incapable of lying and I would swear she was as astonished as anyone else when that necklace showed up in her apron pocket.”
“You believe Miss Derby placed it there?” Watson asked.
“I do.”
“Why?” I demanded. “What would she hope to gain, except - ah!”
“Holmes?” Watson said. “Something has struck you?”
“A glimmer of an idea, Watson. Just a glimmer, and yet... yes, why not?”
I rubbed my hands together. Even with so little to go on, I might yet get to the bottom of this mystery.
“Tell me about the guests, Miss Simms,” I said. “When did they each arrive?”
“M. Perrot came on Wednesday, that is the fifteenth, Mr Holmes. He and Sir Christopher had business to attend. Mr Wallace Summerville was here at that time too, but he left on Friday morning.
“On Thursday morning Mr and Mrs Beecham arrived and Mr Villiers that afternoon. Lady Beatrice arrived around noon yesterday.”
“Thank you, Miss Simms. You have been very helpful.”
After the housekeeper left, Watson and I continued to meet with the rest of the staff, but they either know nothing, or are prepared to keep their secrets. It was as discouraging a display of stupidity as I have ever seen. No, not merely stupidity. There is fear in this house and fear is a much more powerful motivator. The source of that fear is evident: Sir Christopher Summerville. In any event, I decided to turn my attention to the family and guests.
“Must we continue, Holmes?” Watson asked. “Couldn’t we have something to eat first?”
I was loathe to stop but it seemed the household was about to sit down to their midday meal. There seemed no alternative but to join them.
Frankly, I almost expected Summerville to tell Watson and me to dine with the servants. Propriety ruled, however, and we were shown to the dining room with the other guests. As I sat, I pondered that it might be preferable, after all, to get to know the assembled players before interrogating them.
The meal was adequate if somewhat unimaginative. Certainly Watson seemed to enjoy it. He and I were greeted with undisguised curiosity as we sat at the table. Lady Summerville was bubbling with a barely suppressed interest and only the thinly veiled disdain of her husband kept her from asking all the questions that simmered on her lips.
The others at the table present an indifferent group. Monsieur Perrot is a fussy little man who reeks of garlic. In a pretence of poor English he asked about the progress of my investigations.
“Eet is quite a catastrophe,” he said. “Tsk, tsk. I have never encountered so disquieting a thing before. We are all of us on tenterhooks, Mr Holmes.”
For all his show of not knowing the language, I was amused to note that his choice of words was hardly that of an amateur. And only a proficient speaker would use an idiom such as “on tenterhooks”.
“How do you get along, Mr Holmes?” Mr Edmund Villiers asked. “I too find it unsettling to think that someone could enter the house and slay any one of us in our beds.”
“It is too soon to speculate,” I replied. “And there are a few points of interest. It is a difficult case, very difficult. But I wonder, Mr Villiers, why you assume the killer entered from outside.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Summerville demanded. To my silence he said, “The way that woman was slain was surely the work of a madman!” I remained silent and he forged ahead. “Well, you cannot think that any of my guests belongs in Coney Hatch! Or that I employ anyone who belongs in that infernal place?”
“Even if I admitted your initial premise that the murder was the work of a madman, or your second, that neither your guests nor your staff fall into that category, there are still three people in the house whom you do not excuse.”
“Who-” Then, as the import of my suggestion struck him he demanded, “Mr Holmes! Are you suggesting I or my wife or my niece might have committed this monstrosity?”
“It is a ludicrous notion!” M. Perrot said. “My host is a gentleman. And women do not commit murders!”
“Indeed? I believe if you study the American chronicles you will find that just five years ago a young woman was considered the likely murderess of her father and stepmother.”
“Ah, Lizzie Borden,” Watson said, recognising my reference at once. “Yes, dreadful case.”
“I believe you owe our host an apology, Mr Holmes,” Villiers said with an uneasy glance at the apoplectic knight.
I waved an indifferent hand.
“You must forgive Holmes,” Watson said. “He means no disrespect; this is merely part of his process.”
“I call it an infernal insult!” Sir Christopher roared. He flung his napkin onto the table and stormed out.
Red faced, Lady Summerville said, “You must understand my husband is a very sensitive man, Mr Holmes.”
Around the table the company stared disconsolately at their plates, almost as if they were too terrified to eat. Only one had continued to dine throughout the entire tirade and seemed unperturbed by Summerville’s anger: Lady Beatrice. She had not spoken a word since I entered the room, nor had she even glanced in my direction. And yet my heart was as certain as it has ever been of anything that she knew far more about the death of Miss Derby than anyone.
After luncheon, I returned to the library with Watson to resume my examination. We were met at the door by Inspector Greer. He said, with obvious discomfort, “I’m afraid I have to leave you, Mr Holmes. There’s a disturbance at the local public house and I’m afraid it will take my entire station to handle it if it’s the Lowry boys again. Those lads get very wild on a Saturday, but not usually until the evening. I’m so sorry to have to go.”
“Oh what a shame,” I said. From the disapproving look on Watson’s face it was evident I had not quite managed to conceal my glee.
“I really wish I could stay here and watch you work. I’ve no doubt I would learn a lot.”
Well, the man had sense enough to appreciate that fact at least. Still, I was quite certain I’d get nothing out of the sour inhabitants of Rillington Manor with him at my shoulder.
Watson said, with such warmth as to almost fool even me, “Perhaps we could meet up later and compare notes, Inspector? We really must not keep you from your other duties.”
“Well, if you say so, Doctor. I shall hope to see you at the station, Mr Holmes. At your convenience, of course.”
“Happy to, Inspector,” I said. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”
Thus relieved of the man’s presence, Watson and I settled back in the library and worked our way tediously through the family and the guests.
I began with our host. He was, he declared, very busy and
knew nothing of these matters. His wife was in charge of the household and, he made plain, he held her directly responsible for the catastrophe that had fallen upon his house.
He sat before me in the library, equal measures of belligerence and contempt. He is a man of poor temper and high ambition. There is no doubt he would be perfectly capable of committing murder, but I do not think he would do so in his own home. Notoriety.
In any event, he does not even know the dead woman’s first name, let alone anything about her. Reluctantly, I have put him to the bottom of my list of suspects.
M. Perrot was next. He is a small foreigner with impeccable table manners and foul breath. He made a show of being unable to understand my questions. I therefore conducted the interview in French which was tiresome because Watson’s command of the tongue has not the fluency of my own. After the loathsome little man had left I summarised for him:
“A corrupt and unsavoury sort, is our Monsieur Perrot, Watson,” I said. “He claims to be a friend, a ‘bon ami’ of our host, but could not tell me that gentleman’s birth month.”
“What do you suspect him of, Holmes?” Watson asked. “Is he our killer?”
“He is certainly capable of it, but of this particular murder, I cannot be sure. His purpose here is somewhat mysterious, but I suspect there is something sinister at the heart of it. There are too many inconsistencies in his tale. He claims to be from Paris but his accent is plainly from Quebec. Also, Perrot is not his real name.”
“How do you know that?”
“He was wearing monogrammed cufflinks in the form of a W.”
“Couldn’t his first name start with a W?”
“Gentlemen tend to monogram their surnames; in any case, he claims his first name is Anton.”
I stretched and lit a cigarette. “This is a nice household, is it not? Apart from the lad Stevens we have yet to meet anyone with either wit or conscience. Although...” I did not finish. I decided not to add that I was curious to speak with Lady Beatrice. I know Watson of old: he would instantly wander down the rose-scented pathways of romance. I need his attention.