by Nick Kyme
“And jumping across buildings in the dead of night?”
“Almost certainly not.”
“What about fencing?”
Holmes smiled, “Well, I believe they also learn needlework.”
I laughed, despite the grimness of the case in which we were embroiled. The rest of the journey passed without further talk of murder or mysterious figures in black. Instead, we discussed literature, the current state of the theatre in London and other matters entirely more salubrious. All the while though I could see the cogs of Holmes’s mind working, and knew that even as he engaged in what he would consider trivial conversation his hindbrain would be analysing, theorising and considering facts. I knew not what we would find at Saint Agatha’s, but everything I had learned suggested the existence of something lurking just beneath the surface.
* * *
It was late by the time we reached our destination, my back and legs stiff from the long journey, first by train and then by carriage from the station. We passed through a black wrought-iron gate, which provided the only access through the high wall that encircled the grounds of the school. Both showed signs of dilapidation, and I wondered if Saint Agatha’s was in some need of revivification. What I took to be a groundskeeper, given the man’s rustic and hardy attire, admitted us through the rusting gate, having evidently stayed at his post beyond his usual hours given the lateness of our arrival, but nodding politely as our carriage drove past, before shutting the gates behind us.
A broad and winding road led to the school itself, which sat in well-tended grounds. The road itself was uneven at first, making our carriage’s wheels rattle, but efforts were clearly being made to rectify the problem for our passage grew smoother once beyond the outer reaches of the grounds.
Even with night drawing in, I could discern the school itself, a large building with a set of wide steps leading up to the main entrance. There were also several smaller buildings surrounding it, and a modest-sized chapel. Most of the windows were dark, but there was a light burning in the east wing of the main building and over the entrance. I fancied I saw several small faces pressed up against windowpanes, no doubt pupils in their dormitories, but the shadows were fleeting and as we got closer I lost sight of them.
As our carriage reached the main entrance and Holmes and I alighted, the door opened and a stern-looking woman stepped out.
“Dr Watson, I presume?” she asked, approaching me with a hand extended.
I doffed my hat and shook her hand. She had a tough, formal way about her that brooked no challenge and I immediately saw how well suited she would be to her chosen profession. “Indeed, I am. Good evening.”
“And this must be…” she began.
“Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion. “Good evening.”
“Miss Marion Blanchard,” she said. “I am the headmistress here at Saint Agatha’s.”
Although clearly formidable, she was not what I had imagined. Far from an old spinster, she appeared quite vibrant, if a little severe for one so young. Her hair was dark and tied up tightly in a bun at the back of her head. She had a long neck and pleasant features, with large brown eyes that scarcely blinked. I found her gaze to be quite intense, and considered the fact she would be familiar with staring down recalcitrant pupils and not two London gentlemen. Yes, she was young for her position, but I also detected strength in her character.
“I imagine you gentlemen are fatigued from your journey,” said Miss Blanchard. “I have made arrangements with our groundskeeper, Mr Derrick, for you to take a room in his lodgings for the night. Our cook has prepared a light supper. It’s not much, but I hope to your liking.”
I thanked Miss Blanchard, and expressed my appreciation at her thoughtfulness, and that any meal, however small, would be welcome.
Miss Blanchard nodded. “Very well then,” she said, turning on her heel and leading us across the grounds in what I assumed was the direction of the groundskeeper’s lodgings.
“Might I enquire, Miss Blanchard,” Holmes ventured, “when we might see where your colleague tragically met her end? I had hoped to do so this evening.”
Miss Blanchard paused, long enough to suggest that although prepared for the subject Holmes had raised, the mere mention of it still brought her considerable discomfort. She turned, her composure intact, but with an air of resignation.
“I am afraid that is out of the question, Mr Holmes. The pupils are in their dormitories and I have no wish to see them disturbed any more than they have been already, since this dreadful business.”
“Of course.”
“I can have someone call for you first thing in the morning and I will show you what it is you wish to see,” she said, and I noted the language she used, that she had failed to mention the name of the teacher who had died or even make a reference to where the ghastly event took place, never mind the event itself.
No further words were exchanged until we reached the edge of the field where the groundskeeper waited to take us the rest of the way, at which point Miss Blanchard issued a short “goodnight” before returning to the school.
Our host was the same man who had opened the entrance gate for us. He had a pale green shirt, a thick woollen jacket over the top of it, rugged-looking brown wool trousers and wore a simple flat cap. Stray wisps of greyish hair peeked out of the edges like strands of cotton wool. His boots were stout, made of leather and went halfway up his calf. A stick was clenched in his right hand, which was gnarled with age, much like the man himself.
“Don’t mind her,” said the groundskeeper, Derrick, as he led us towards a small but homely-looking cottage. “She’s been here all of her life has Miss Blanchard, since she were a pupil herself.”
“As have you, sir?” I guessed.
“Aye,” said Derrick, “though I didn’t do my learning here,” he added, moving with the leisurely gait that some men of advancing years adopt. I found I liked the man instantly, with his easy manner and cheerful demeanour, and was a little envious of the rural haven he had made for himself.
“My father was groundskeeper here before me, and his father before him. I have seen them all come and go,” he said with the ready ease of someone used to relating the history of his life and family.
“Did you know the deceased?” asked Holmes. The Times had been scant on detail, with no name given for the dead woman. Perhaps it was no longer considered newsworthy.
A sigh escaped Mr Derrick’s lips, and I sensed a weariness in him that had risen like a shadow to eclipse his bright mood. “A terrible, terrible business,” he said, lightly shaking his head. “Mrs Sidley, yes, I knew her.”
“Mrs?” I asked. “She was a married woman?”
“Used to be, as I understand it. I heard her husband died of consumption.”
“A wretched illness,” I replied.
“How would you describe Mrs Sidley? Her manner and disposition?” asked Holmes.
“I confess, I never warmed to her,” admitted Derrick, and I found the simple absence of any attempt to dissemble refreshing. “But she dedicated her life to her pupils, even if her methods were somewhat stricter than most.”
“How so, Mr Derrick?” I asked.
“Oh you know, she applied the cane a little too easily, I felt. There wasn’t one girl she didn’t bring to tears at some point or other, but it wasn’t my place to judge. All of them were afraid of her. She wore these shoes, you see,” he said, and gestured to his own rugged boots, “they had metal tips on the toes and on the heel. She made this… clacking sound as she walked; that’s how folks knew she was coming, I suppose. I used to hear it when I was in the field, clack, clack, clack, all the way from the schoolyard as she stalked back and forth. Quite the racket, it was. How the girls would scurry when they heard that sound. I can’t say whether she liked the idea of that, because her face was always set like a storm, and she was quick to punish the pupils.”
“Did you ever see her do so?” I asked.
Derrick shook his hea
d. “I saw the aftermath once, but it was no business of mine. I know what’s good for me, Doctor. I keep to my duties and that’s that.”
“And what are your duties specifically?” Holmes asked.
“I tend to the grounds and to the rose garden by the chapel. I mind the gate too. Miss Blanchard tells me when she’s expecting folk and I make sure to let them in.”
“The work on the road; we noticed it was a tad derelict near the gate but got smoother as we approached the school,” said I. “Was that also you, sir?”
“Oh no,” said Derrick, dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand. “Labourers were brought in to tend to that.” He sighed, somewhat wistfully. “This old school… she is in need of some tending too, but it’s beyond me to set right.”
“You mentioned that Mrs Sidley’s punishment of the girls was swift,” said Holmes, returning to the previous topic, “but that you never saw the act itself?”
“I heard them shouting sometimes, wailing really,” Derrick explained.
“During a reprimand?” I asked.
Derrick nodded, staring into the distance, and I reckoned he was revisiting the recollections.
“And in your opinion, Mr Derrick, did this corporal punishment ever get out of hand? Judging by what you heard,” asked Holmes, clearly intrigued. “I have no wish to besmirch the reputation of a dead woman, but you said yourself that Mrs Sidley was strict. Not an unusual trait amongst the teaching profession, and you must have seen many teachers come and go, so I can only conclude that you believed Mrs Sidley to be singular in her application of the cane.”
Mr Derrick paused before answering. His pace slowed a little as if the incident he had been asked to dredge from the sea of his memory was somehow weighing him down. He licked his lips, the words of his imminent confession having left them dry.
“I remember one occasion when it was really bad… You must understand,” he said, “most of the pupils knew what Mrs Sidley was like. She was widowed young, before she came to the school, and had a hardness about her. The pupils respected her, I think, or at least they feared her. The day was sure to come, however, when one of them didn’t. I only saw the girl twice. She had fair hair, a pretty girl, I’d say, though she had the look of someone much older than her years. Very stern she was. I thought it was pride, though I believe Mrs Sidley saw it as insolence. They fought, the two of them. I don’t mean one raised hand to the other, though I would wager Mrs Sidley did so on more than one occasion. As I said, most of the girls felt the sting of her cane. No, I mean a battle of wills. I overheard Miss Blanchard discussing the matter with another teacher. She was bright, the girl, by all accounts. I think it surprised them.
“Most of these girls, they come here to be educated away from the towns, and know little of the world. But she was different. I don’t think Mrs Sidley liked that, to be challenged. I never saw the girl’s parents, and don’t believe she had any, or at least I never saw or heard mention of them, so there was no one to go to when she overstepped her bounds. She just showed up one day and that’s when I first clapped eyes on her. She was alone, but seemed not to mind it.”
“Do you happen to know her name, Mr Derrick?” asked Holmes.
“I can’t recall, sir. My memory isn’t very good for names.”
“She arrived alone?” I said. “Was there no one with her at all? No guardian?” In a moment of what I hoped was inspiration I described Damian Graves, but Mr Derrick shook his head. “Perhaps you might have seen him in the school, in an office or some such,” I pressed.
Again, Mr Derrick shook his head. “My duties don’t give much call for me going into the school buildings or talking to the pupils. Miss Blanchard encourages me to keep to myself and that’s fine by me.” He paused. “That’s why I was unprepared when it happened.”
I frowned, losing the thread of the groundskeeper’s account.
“When you saw the girl again,” said Holmes.
“Yes, sir,” Derrick confirmed. “About two weeks ago. But let me tell you inside. I think I might need a cup of tea first.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE CONFESSION OF MR DERRICK
The groundskeeper’s cottage was homely, and Mr Derrick had made it his own. The wooden furniture was well used and rounded with age, but stout and unyielding in spite of the years. A small stove sat in one corner, and Derrick quickly set about putting to use boiling water for tea, after he had shed his coat and hat at the door. The cottage was warm and comfortable, a low fire flickering in the hearth. A light spread of cold meats and bread had been left on the table, the meal mentioned by Miss Blanchard, I assumed.
Holmes and I accepted the tea when it was offered, though I suspect my companion did so out of courtesy more than any desire to drink it, before Mr Derrick then joined us at the table. I ate heartily, though Holmes didn’t touch a morsel, whilst our host only picked at a little bread. He then took a deep draught of the tea before resuming his story.
“I had been out most of the morning cutting the grass, when I returned to find the girl on my doorstep. She was in a frightful state and babbling. I have no idea what she was saying. I tried to ask her what was wrong, but she kept muttering.”
I gave Holmes a furtive look. He was staring intently at Mr Derrick and betrayed nothing of his thoughts.
“How did she appear?” he asked. “Leave out no detail, however small, Mr Derrick.”
Derrick rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “She had been crying. There were tear marks down her face, and her hands were red raw. She held them together, between the folds in her skirt,” he mimicked this gesture with his own hands, clasping them together, “and when she let them go that’s when I saw the blood.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow.
“It was hers, sir. There were several long straight cuts down both of her palms, and she winced at the pain of them. I was about to ask what had happened, when I saw she had a sharp stone in one hand. At first I thought she might have cut herself with it, but the wounds on her palms looked too long and not jagged enough for that. It was a cane, I felt sure, what had done it, but it must’ve been a fearsome beating to make her bleed like that.” Derrick took a sip of his tea, and I suspect he wished that it were something stronger.
“And the stone? A keepsake, perhaps an improvised weapon?” asked Holmes.
“She scratched something on my doorstep with it. By the looks of the mess she had made, she’d been doing it for a while and only stopped when she saw me coming back.”
“A word, some message or symbol?” I asked.
Derrick shook his head again. “I can’t rightly say. Just looked like scratches to me, and I didn’t ask what it meant. She was angry, though, that much I could tell. I didn’t know what to do. No pupil had ever come to my cottage before. I was about to go and find help, when she sprang to her feet.
“She had a look in her eye, which I don’t mind telling you, sirs, well, it gave me pause it did. It was like something changed in her. This look… it wasn’t fear or misery, it wasn’t even defiance or anger, it was… it’s hard to explain.” Derrick’s face screwed up as he fought for the right words. In the end he settled on a different memory to help make his point.
“My father, God rest his soul, he took me to Cornwall when I was a boy. It was the only trip we ever went on together, and it was to bury my mother who hailed from there. We spent three nights in Falmouth, and every night, just as the fishing boats were coming in to harbour, I would watch the tides. On the last night, us having buried my mother during the day, I went out again. I saw a drifter come in, its nets bulging, and amongst the catch was the biggest fish I had ever seen. My father said it was a basking shark. Its flanks shimmered like wet silver in the moonlight, but it was the eyes that struck me. Cold, they were, and black. I shivered when I saw those eyes. That’s what it reminded me of, the look the girl had, like the eyes of that shark. I don’t mind admitting that I shivered again, just like that night in Falmouth, when I saw her eyes.”
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br /> He took another sip of his tea, and I noticed a slight tremor in his hands. “She went off after that, though I don’t know to where.”
“Did you speak of the matter to Miss Blanchard?” I asked.
Derrick looked down into his cup. “Miss Blanchard said she would take the matter in hand. I stayed out of it. I didn’t see what harm could come of doing that.”
“No harm at all,” said Holmes, though his tone had an edge to it that I think our kindly groundskeeper missed.
“Best put a few logs on the fire,” said Derrick, rising, “I can feel a chill in the air tonight.”
The fire crackled as the logs were added, a bright flare briefly illuminating the sitting room and lengthening our shadows before it settled down again.
“I should like to see what the girl scratched on your doorstep, if I may, Mr Derrick?” asked Holmes.
“Of course. I’ll retire to my bed, if you don’t mind. I’ve an early start in the morning. I’ve set up a room for you at the back of the cottage. It’s small, but comfortable.”
I told Mr Derrick that we didn’t mind at all and thanked him for his courtesy, before following Holmes outside. My companion crouched down and took out a box of matches, then lit one and directed its light at Mr Derrick’s doorstep, illuminating a series of small grooves in the stone.
“I can barely see anything,” I admitted to Holmes, squinting.
Holmes pocketed the matches and pressed his fingers into the grooves.
“Can you make out anything, Holmes?”
My companion did not answer at first. Having evidently seen everything he needed to, he rose to his feet, snuffed out the match and declared, “I believe I can, Watson. The marks bear some resemblance to the script we first saw at the gallery, hidden under the first layer of paint, and again carved into Grigori Andropov’s flesh.”
“A connection then.”
“Indeed.”
“But what of it? What now?”
“Now, Watson?” he said, abruptly turning around to face me, “I shall follow Mr Derrick’s example and retire for the evening. I urge you to do the same. It has been a long day.”