by Geri Schear
“Then the girl has helped?”
I rose from the desk. “Yes,” I replied. “I begin to see possibilities.”
“But what is it you see?”
I handed him the stack of photographs and my glass. “See for yourself, my good fellow,” I said. “What do you make of it?”
He was silent for several minutes, and then he said, “The room was searched. All those drawers are open, the cupboard, everything has been rifled.”
“Yes. But what was our killer searching for? When we know that, we will know who he is.”
“It is a man, then?”
“It certainly seems the most likely probability. It takes immense strength to crush the throat of a human being. Would a woman manage such a thing? Perhaps... But look at the marks upon the woman’s neck. Such wide finger spread is beyond most of the women in this house except, perhaps, Lady Beatrice.”
“Why her? I did not notice her hands to be larger than any of the other ladies.”
“She is a pianist, Watson. That implies, does it not, a manual dexterity that would allow for such a broad hand spread? I find Lady Beatrice’s hands immensely interesting.”
He gave me one of his indulgent looks then said, “But surely if the girl was the killer she would not have offered to assist us.”
“It is unlikely, certainly, but I will take nothing at face value. All the same, I am eager to hear what the young woman has to say when she is not being fettered by her uncle or his minions.”
“Indeed. But the entire thing seems a bit rum. Why on earth was Derby wearing her coat and shoes?”
“A good question, Watson, but I have a better: Why was the killer wearing gloves?”
Watson thought for a moment before saying, “Perhaps he has read that no two sets of fingerprints are identical and was being cautious.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “In the future - the very near future if Scotland Yard will heed my advice - our police force will have a system in place to catalogue everyone’s fingerprints. So far, only one country has established a fingerprinting bureau, and it is not England.
“I read an article on the subject by Dr Henry Faulds. You may have heard of him, Watson. He’s a Scot.”
“We don’t all know each other, Holmes,” he said. “Any more than all Englishmen do. But you have mentioned Dr Faulds before, I think. Wasn’t he the fellow who wrote about the importance of fingerprinting in criminal detection?”
“He was, indeed. Well remembered, Watson.”
“Hmph. Well as much as you have spoken about him, Holmes, I suppose I would have to remember something. But do you think the killer had that sort of foresight to wear gloves to avoid detection?”
“Perhaps. On the other hand, this is quite a cold house and last night was damp and chilly. It’s more likely the killer was outside...”
“Holmes?”
“What if the killer was outside for some reason and he spotted the victim? He might have had a rendezvous with her... That footprint there that the lady was kind enough to document - that does not belong to the victim. The shoe is larger and narrower. More to the point, the footprint seems to be damp, hence the discolouration.”
“Well, if the killer was outside that would explain the gloves and the wet footprints, but I’m not sure how that helps,” Watson said.
“No,” I agreed. “There is not enough information to form a reliable theory. But I shall catalogue it. It will, no doubt, make sense when we have gathered some more facts.”
September 19th, 1897: 2am
This case has features of interest. Yes, indeed, I grow quite intrigued by it. But I digress: first I should record the results of my meeting with Lady Beatrice in the library.
She arrived punctually. Her footfall was so light as to be almost silent. Indeed, poor Watson quite started when she came into the room. We rose to our feet as she opened the door with great care. Then seeing ourselves, nodded and closed the door softly behind her.
She strode up to me and offered me her hand in a forthright way. “Mr Holmes,” she said. “It is a great honour to meet you; I have followed your career with great interest. Doctor, how do you do? Please-” She indicated the chairs. She sat before me facing the lamp, and making no attempt to shield herself from scrutiny. I sat immediately opposite her in a leather armchair. Watson took the sofa.
“I must thank you, Lady Beatrice, for your most precise documentation of this unhappy event,” I said.
She bowed slightly. I was pleased to see she neither denied the importance of her contribution nor blushed. Her response was perfectly matter of fact.
“A poor substitute for an undisturbed scene left for your scrutiny, I fear, but I hope you found it of use, Mr Holmes. I am sure you will have questions. Unfortunately, Sir Christopher’s ah, protective nature...” she spoke the word with heavy sarcasm. “Makes it difficult to discuss the matter more openly. However, the library is little in use, even during daylight hours. At this time of night we may reasonably expect to have it to ourselves.”
“Splendid!” I said, rubbing my hands together. At last I felt we were making progress. “Now, Lady Beatrice, would you mind elaborating upon your description of the finding of the body which you documented so admirably in your letter?”
“Certainly, though I recommend you speak with the young footman Stevens for it was he who found the body.”
“A little before five o’clock, you said?”
“That’s right. It was early for him to be awake. Usually he does not rise before six for he has no kitchen duties to attend. But he says something woke him. He sat up in bed for some minutes listening but he heard nothing further. He tried to go back to sleep but was unable to do so. Some instinct told him something was amiss, and so he crept along the hallway and found the body. I really recommend you speak with him again, Mr Holmes, but when he is alone. Find some reason to take a coach into town; Stevens will drive you. He will speak freely to you then.”
“An excellent idea. Stevens acts as a coachman as well as a footman?”
Her reply was as contemptuous of her aunt’s husband as before. “Sir Christopher likes the appearance of a wealthy household without necessarily wanting to pay for it. Most of the servants have extra duties from time to time.”
“And this fellow Stevens,” Watson said. “Do you trust him?”
“Yes, I do. I’ve known him since he was a very young boy and his mother came to work for my aunt. That was sixteen years ago.”
“And your aunt’s husband,” I said. “Is it his abuse of your aunt you hold against him, or is there more?”
“You are that rarest of things, Mr Holmes,” she said, smiling. “A man who is worthy of every superlative that has ever been spoken about him. You are right, of course. I trust your reputation for discretion is as reliable as that of your intellect.”
“I can speak for Holmes’s honour,” Watson said, stoutly. “There is no man in England whose word is more reliable.”
“Thank you,” said the Lady. “Then I must have your word that you will treat what I am about to tell you with the greatest of confidence.”
“You have my word,” I said. I then and do find myself eager not to disappoint her. No doubt my experiences in Cornwall continue to leave traces of the maudlin upon me. I set aside the sentiment and paid close attention to the Lady’s story.
“Well then,” she said. “You will undoubtedly have surmised some of it yourself. My aunt is a good creature. She is, perhaps, rather nervous and foolish and her talent for avoiding unpleasant facts amounts almost to an art. But she has a good and kind heart and I am fond of her.
“Eight years ago when she was expected to remain a spinster - she was then thirty-six years of age - she announced to everyone’s astonishment that she was going to marry. My father met with Sir Christopher and disliked h
im intensely. He pleaded with my aunt not to go through with the marriage, but given her age and her spinsterhood, she could not be dissuaded.
“Within a matter of weeks of the wedding I became aware that her husband was abusing my aunt quite outrageously. She denied it, of course, but she frequently cancelled lunches and outings that she ordinarily enjoyed. If I wanted to see her I had to come to her and what I found here troubled me. She had unexplained bruises - not just on occasion but every time I saw her.
“My father had, by this time, been diagnosed with the illness that eventually killed him and I did not wish to worry him with my concerns. I was exceedingly preoccupied with his care and I’m afraid I paid little attention to my aunt’s concerns.
“Some time later my father was admitted to hospital. He did not want me to stay alone in London during that period, I therefore accepted my aunt’s invitation to visit for a few weeks.
“As I have said, I had known Stevens since he was just a lad. I found him to be intelligent and honourable. One morning as I took a walk in the grounds he spoke to me of his concerns about my aunt’s welfare. He observed first-hand the blows and the insults that she was subjected to on an almost daily basis.
“I pleaded with Lady Summerville to leave. Unlike most women in her situation, she had a home to come to and family who would support her. Our society is not kind to women, Mr Holmes. It is particularly harsh when they are victims of savage men. My aunt refused all offers of help. She had made her bed, she said, and she must lie in it. I believe, despite everything, she loves the brute.
“The best I could do was to ask Stevens to keep an eye on matters and to inform me if the violence to my aunt escalated. The young man has been good as his word and has often written to me when matters become acute. I have found that my presence here has, so far, tempered my uncle’s behaviour. At least I can offer my aunt some respite from her husband.”
She drew her hands to her mouth and was silent a moment. Despite the natural reserve of her caste, I could see she was greatly distressed by her aunt’s situation.
I gave her a moment to calm herself before saying, “So you are quite sure, then, that young Stevens is above suspicion?”
“I have known him almost his whole life, Mr Holmes. But do not take my word for it. Speak to him yourself and you will see.”
“Thank you, I shall. Now, tell me about that footprint that you photographed. In the picture it looked damp. Was that the case?”
“Yes, indeed. I put a ruler beside it so you could estimate the size. It was obviously not Derby’s. Her foot was shorter and wider.”
“As I observed...”
For another half hour we continued to discuss aspects of the housemaid’s murder but she had little to add to the information she had already given us. Only one point emerged that surprised me.
“The black substance beneath Derby’s fingernails was, I think, black suede,” she said. “Ah, I see you agree with me.”
“I do. I would like to examine it beneath a microscope to be certain, but my magnifying glass has convinced me.”
“I also have examined the stuff under a glass,” said she. “And I am in no doubt. I have asked Stevens to examine the men’s drawers to see how many of them have gloves that fit that description.”
“Capital!” I cried. “Well done, well done, indeed, Lady Beatrice! And what success has he had?”
“Moderate. Most of the male guests possess gloves of that sort, as do the butler, Reynolds, and Stevens himself. Also, Lady Summerville and I have black suede gloves. I have brought mine with me for your inspection.”
I took the proffered items but even a casual glance showed there was no damage to the fabric.
“It is possible, of course, that I might have another pair. I can only give you my word that I do not.”
She then splayed out her hands before me. “As a pianist, you will see my fingers have rather a wider span than most women. I also have better than average strength in my hands. Whether that would allow me sufficient ability to strangle another human being, I cannot say. But you cannot rule me out.”
I rubbed my hands together. For the first time since arriving at this unhappy house I was enjoying myself. “And did you kill her, Lady Beatrice?” I asked.
“No, I did not,” she said, rising to her feet. She smiled. “But I would be very disappointed if you merely took my word for it. Goodnight, gentlemen.”
8
September 19th, 1897
I find myself torn this morning between my need to learn more of Derby’s background and my conviction that leaving Bitterne at this juncture would be most unwise. There is a killer in this house, of that I am certain, and he - or she - may strike again. I have particular concerns for Lady Beatrice. She plays the part of the indifferent socialite very well, but even a very small error on her part could be disastrous. Her every move is scrutinised by her uncle and I shudder to think of his retribution should she be discovered helping us. No, I must stay here in Southampton.
Despite some misgivings about his safety, I have asked Watson to go to London and see what he can learn about Derby’s background. He, good man, has agreed and I have given him a list of points to investigate. Frankly, Watson is likely to do a better job than I. His capacity for understanding the human heart is quite remarkable. In this instance, at least, that understanding is more likely to succeed here than all my cleverness. There, I have said it.
It never fails to irk me how little credit the man does himself in his stories. If the public only knew what a mighty man John Watson is...”If it doesn’t worry me, Holmes,” he says, “why should it bother you? Besides, truth is a very precious commodity. Far too rich a thing for the general populace to digest.”
I am not appeased.
In any case, I shall leave the London side of things in safe hands while I have a task of my own to accomplish: I must discover what the killer sought in Liz Derby’s room. The possibilities are endless, photographs or letters being the most likely, but I cannot make that assumption. Too many possibilities and too little evidence in any direction. Of one thing I can be sure: Derby’s shoes will lead me to her killer.
This morning, as Lady Beatrice suggested, I requested the use of the trap to take Watson and myself into the town of Bitterne. I announced at breakfast that I felt the key to the housemaid’s death lay in her past, and that I was sending my friend and colleague to learn what he may about her. This declaration caused considerable relief around the table as the family and guests made the obvious, but erroneous assumption, that none of them was under suspicion. I did not correct their error. Lady Beatrice reacted not at all. She is an accomplished actress.
Now expecting the matter to be resolved swiftly and with no blemish on his household, Sir Christopher has become what, for him, probably passes for genial. Of course we may have the trap, it would do young Stevens here good to get off his rump and do some work for a change.
The footman’s face was implacable.
“You are very kind, Sir Christopher,” I said smoothly. “We should be in the village by half past ten so Doctor Watson may catch his train. Stevens, can you convey us by... oh, let us say five minutes before the hour?”
“Certainly, sir,” Stevens replied, and the illusion was complete.
Once we were on the trap and safely beyond the bounds of the manor, I reiterated my directions to the doctor.
“Take care to watch for reactions, Watson. These people will not willingly reveal their secrets. You must win their confidence and assure them that our only intention is to assist them.”
“You can count on me, Holmes.”
“I have not the slightest doubt of it, my dear fellow. I can think of no one better suited to the task. If you are delayed in the city, as I suspect you will be, I would be obliged if you could write to me of your progress.”
“If I may, sir,” Stevens interjected. “But letters to the manor may not be quite safe. Things have been... opened by the wrong person before now. You may do better having them sent to the local constabulary. Or you can send them to my old mum’s cottage and collect them there if you like.”
This raised a number of thoughts in my mind but I said only, “An excellent idea. Send them to the inspector, Watson. No, I have a better idea. Just telephone me at the manor. We should assume our conversation will be eavesdropped so tell me that Mrs Hudson sends her best wishes if you are able to confirm my suspicions, and that she is unwell if you have had no luck.”
“I understand,” he said.
Stevens dropped us at the railway station and was delighted at my suggestion that he go visit his ailing mother. As we waited for the train, I had the doctor outline his plan.
“I thought I’d start at Scotland Yard,” said he. “If Lestrade is occupied with another case it might be wise to give him notice of what we need.”
“Oh Lestrade can’t possibly have anything more pressing than this case,” I said. “You would do better to start at Baker Street.”
“Lestrade has other priorities than yours, you know, Holmes,” Watson said. “I shall go to Baker Street second and see if there have been any clients and if the Irregulars have any news for us. It’s only been twelve hours since you called Mrs Hudson and gave her instructions for them. Not even they can have done all you asked in so short a time.”
With an air of indifference I said, “Perhaps not; and yet they might. You know, Watson, if the Irregulars have been successful, your Scotland Yard trip may prove entirely unnecessary.”
He gave me a look. “That’s arrant nonsense and you know it, Holmes. And this isn’t the first time you’ve been anxious for me to spend my time with those urchins. They’ve dogged my path every time I’ve set foot outside 221B for weeks now. Then there’s your recent insistence that I never travel without my service revolver. I can only conclude you believe me to be in some jeopardy. I have been patient quite long enough, surely? Come on, man. Out with it.”