Holmes thoughtfully tapped at the first letter (which I had lent him, so that he might enjoy Percy Phelps’s “mastery” of our tongue). He regarded the envelope for a moment, lingering over the return address, and said, “Briarbrae House…
“…Briarbrae House…” he said again. “I feel I might be induced to walk there.”
“To Woking?” I asked, somewhat archly.
“Of course not, Watson. But… from here to a hired cab. From the cab to a train. From the train to another cab and thence to Briarbrae… Yes, I think I might be induced.”
I stared at him levelly. He met my gaze with challenge in his eyes.
“Normally,” I clarified. “With human legs?”
His expression faltered, momentarily, as he reflected on the amount of physical discomfort he was promising to undergo.
“Of course, Watson,” he said, then added, “I suppose it is about the only place I might be induced to walk to any time soon.”
I hung my head and sighed. “I’ll just wire ahead and let them know we’re coming, shall I?”
* * *
Briarbrae House was a thing of beauty—the worthy seat of an illustrious family. True, December had lessened the beauty of its gardens, yet the smell of winter fir trees went a great way towards compensating for this. The air was just cold enough to be bracing, with another five degrees to go before it became miserable. The bell was answered by an austere old butler, who looked as if he ought to be named Perkins, or Bixby or something. (It later turned out to be Pixby, so I’d been quite close.)
“Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes,” he intoned. “We are so pleased you could come. The staff is perfectly distraught. We dearly hope you can shut the young master up.”
Then he caught himself and stammered, “I mean: ease the young master’s pain.”
“Yes. I think I know just what you mean,” I said. “I only wonder if we might have a moment to rest, first? The journey has been difficult for my friend.”
Holmes was in a state. I’d been cursing myself ever since the train arrived in Woking that I’d let myself be bullied into taking him. A few gentle steps would have been ideal. A trip to a stranger’s house, miles away, was the prescription of a doctor working more from frustration than reason. Holmes was pale and shaking.
“Please do not tarry long,” Pixby urged. “The young master is insufferable. Oh! No! The young master is suffering.”
“Well do I know it,” I assured him.
As Holmes enjoyed a few moments’ much-needed rest, a robust, imp-faced man in his early thirties descended from the upper story to meet us. An I’m-a-bad-lad-up-to-no-good smirk seemed to have conquered his face some decades ago and held the territory against all challengers.
“You two must be Holmes and Watson, eh?” he said. “Glad you made it. Poor Percy’s at his wits’ end. I’m not sure anything can help my brother, but he seems to pin all hopes to you, and—for my part—I hope he’s right.”
“I was unaware that Percy had a brother,” I said. “In fact, I am unaware of any only child who has a brother.”
“Yes, yes, well, he hasn’t got one yet. My name’s Joseph Harrison. No familial relation. But, as Percy’s marrying my sister…” His words trailed off, but his satisfied smirk essentially continued the thought: …I’m about to be tremendously wealthy.
Perfect.
Yes, just what this trip was missing. Not only was I about to be re-burdened with Percy Phelps, but it appeared I would also be in the company of a transparent gold-digger and her disreputable brother. Wonderful.
“Wonderful!” cried Holmes. “Ah, is there anything sweeter than two young hearts intertwining? Noble Percy: was ever there a soul more worthy to be loved?”
Joseph and I both turned to Holmes, to stare incredulously.
Mr. Harrison pointed one finger at Holmes and wondered, “Is he…?”
“No, he is entirely earnest,” I said. “Of course, he has yet to meet Percy.”
“Oh, that explains it,” said Harrison. “Come on, won’t you? I know Percy will want to see you as soon as possible. Go easy with Annie, though, eh? My sister’s not convinced Percy’s ready for company yet.”
With an air of familiarity that bordered on ownership, Joseph Harrison led us down the hall to the closest bedroom door. He knocked once and called, “Good news! Visitors from London.”
“Hush, Joe!” hissed a woman’s voice from within. “I’ve told you before: Percy’s nerves!”
Harrison rolled his eyes and swept open the door. There on the bed lay Percy Phelps. He was pale. Shaking. Eyes bagged with exhaustion of body and of character. He seemed aged beyond his years and on the very cusp of collapse.
So, pretty much the same as ever. Slightly more so.
Sitting in a chair by the side of the bed, clutching Percy’s hand with rapturous protectionism, sat Annie Harrison.
Immediately, I realized I’d been wrong about her. I had expected one of two scenarios. Possibly, she would be a smoldering temptress, parlaying her natural gifts into a life of comfort. If not that, then a clever-eyed con-woman, undermining Percy’s will and insinuating herself into a social stratum far beyond her right. But no. The instant I laid eyes on her, I realized this was a love match.
I suppose we’ve all met girls like her. Girls who are everyone’s hovering mother by the time they’re seventeen. Girls who know exactly which hat everyone needs to wear if they go out this evening, or else they shall catch their death. Girls who won’t let you eat the shellfish, because they don’t like the look of it and you’ll thank them later, when you haven’t caught typhoid and died. Yes, Percy Phelps was precious to Annie Harrison, but not because of his station. Not because of his wealth.
Because of his weakness of character.
Here was the blanching hypochondriac she’d always wanted: the man who would need her and heed her from the moment they met, until death should part them. She glared at Holmes and me in open challenge. If our intrusion should upset Percy, her gaze promised, she would kill us both. Then, after the funerals, she’d dig up our corpses, kill them, burn them, and kill the ashes.
A perfect match.
“Watson? Is that Watson, come at last?” Percy wailed. He tried to sit up but faltered as soon as his head left the pillow. His eyes darted this way and that, in a paroxysm of suffering, staring all about the room in search of something to anchor him—something to stop his inevitable descent back to the pillow from whence he’d risen. Alas! Too late! With a terrible (theatrical?) shudder, Percy lost his will and sagged back down upon his sickbed. Annie lunged forward to cushion his three-inch plummet as best she could manage, then turned to glare at me with fierce, how-dare-you-you-wicked-man-ish fervor.
Holmes gave a cry of sympathy and staggered to the side of Percy’s bed to clutch his hand and assuage his suffering, however he might. I gave a sigh and answered, “Yes. It’s me. Now what do you want, Percy? You’ve written five letters and still haven’t said.”
“Five?” he wondered. “Have my last three letters not reached you yet? Is there no help from the British postal system in my hour of need?”
“What do you want?”
He didn’t say. Instead, he fainted. Then we had to go and wait outside while Annie revived him. Then he was in no shape for visitors. Then we all had dinner, in the company of Percy’s long-suffering parents. Then Percy awoke to find himself possessed of a fresh resolve (Annie promised us that he had a boundless reservoir of strength) and felt that he might at last be able to speak about that evening that had so upset him, provided only I was in the room. To speak of his failure in front of Annie was more than his heart could bear, we were all assured.
“Come on, Holmes,” I muttered. “Let’s get this over with.”
If Percy realized his injunction of solitude had been broken, he didn’t mind it. He hardly even glanced at Holmes as my friend took Annie’s chair by the side of the bed and held Percy’s hand as he began his tale.
“As you no doubt
know, about ten weeks ago I accepted a position as clerk in the Foreign Office.”
“How would I have known that?”
“It was in all the papers.”
“What, because the government hired an entry-level clerk?”
“No, because they hired me.”
Much as I hated to admit it, Percy Phelps had a point. The illustriousness of his family was such that one of them getting a case of the sneezes might garner the front page of The Times. All I could do was mutter, “I can’t imagine what motivated them to do it.”
“One night, my superior—and uncle—Lord Holdhurst…”
“Ah. That’s why.”
“…My uncle called me into his office for a special assignment. He gave me a communication from a potent foreign power, and told me to copy it. It was early evening; the rest of the office had gone home, yet he bade me stay and copy the communication, no matter how long it should take. He was most insistent. We were in his office—totally unobserved, I am sure. He gave me a little metal attaché case and bid me examine the contents and prepare a… well… not even a copy, really. I suppose a synopsis would be the proper term. He wanted me to glean the meaning— the thrust—of the thing, then put it into my own words, so he could alert the prime minister without surrendering the original. He then left the office.”
“And you were totally alone in the Foreign Office?” I asked.
“Nearly. There is a commissionaire—Mr. Tangey— who stays all night, in an office at the foot of the stairs. He shall be important, as you shall see. Well, I began my task, but could make no headway with it. The document— shall I call it a document?—was altogether strange to me. I know not the language it was in, nor could I describe the contents of its message.”
“So… difficult to copy, then?”
“Exceedingly. I thought a cup of coffee might do some good, so I rang for the commissionaire I mentioned earlier. Imagine my surprise when a woman came to answer the summons. I did not know her. She explained that she was the commissionaire’s wife, that she was our charwoman, and that she would happily have her husband prepare some coffee. She left and I went back to my task. I made little headway. Discerning the meaning of the message was difficult, especially because—it seemed to me—it was constantly changing.”
“Changing?” I said. Holmes and I exchanged a loaded glance.
“And vexing me, mightily,” Percy confirmed. “I soon realized it had been over an hour. I was desperate to finish my task and go, for my beloved Annie’s brother was in town. I’d hoped to meet him and accompany him back to Woking, but I knew my time was short. And I still hadn’t got my coffee. Well, I stamped downstairs to see what could be keeping that wretched man from bringing my drink and you’ll never guess what I found! Go ahead! Try and guess!”
This was exactly the type of challenge Holmes lived for, so he cried out, “An assassin! A minotaur! Pixies?”
“Er… well… no,” said Phelps. “He’d fallen asleep. There was my coffee, bubbling away behind the man while he snored on his desk.”
“That’s nearly as good as pixies,” said Holmes, encouragingly.
“What was I to do?” Phelps demanded.
“Pour yourself a cup of coffee and go back upstairs?” I hazarded.
“I woke the man up and began shouting at him!”
“Ah, yes… I’d forgotten your difference in station, I suppose.”
“I think he had just begun to realize the seriousness of his transgression, when the bell rang again and the commissionaire’s face went as white as a sheet. He tried to interrupt me a few times—oh, the cheek!—and finally, when I asked if he understood why he must be punished, he asked me how I’d rung the bell. I told him I hadn’t. Someone else in some other room must have. But he said there was nobody in the building but us, and that the bell was the one for my own office. I began to get a bit worried at that point, so I ran back up to my office, and what do you think I found?”
“Probably not the secret document,” Holmes reasoned, “or you wouldn’t have fainted for nine days and written Watson all those sad letters.”
“I say, Holmes, well done! Your powers of deduction are improving every day!”
“Thank you, Watson.”
Percy gave a sad wail and threw himself down on his pillows, crying, “He’s right! It was gone! Gone! And with it all my hopes! From that moment forward, I had nothing left! Nothing but shame, professional dishonor—”
“And several manor houses,” I reminded him. “And pots of money. And armies of servants. And the basic surety that you will live a long, luxurious life that would put most of Europe’s kings to shame.”
I don’t think he even heard me. He wrung his hands and complained, “I knew my uncle would be furious. I struck the commissionaire, then summoned the police and made him take me to his house to confront his wife. He said she’d left after asking him to make the coffee. Ha! A likely story! I demanded she be arrested and tortured. But the police found nothing! They’ve been following and interrogating them ever since and still nothing! Or so they tell me. I’m afraid I missed most of it. I was stricken with brain fever that very night!”
“Brain fever?” As a medical doctor I was familiar with the affliction—it being one of the most epidemic of Britain’s made-up illnesses. Whenever one of the last generation of English doctors could not be bothered to diagnose their patient, they would simply declare a case of brain fever, prescribe rest and present a bill.
“Yes, I get it quite often,” Percy explained. “We called Dr. Ferrier, who said I was slightly overwrought, but I set him straight. I said this was a clear case of brain fever, if ever there was one—”
There wasn’t.
“—and that I must be returned home. Well, they whisked me here and set me up in this very room! They wanted to bring me to my own room, but there were stairs in the way! Stairs! So I made them kick Joseph out and put me in here. He didn’t mind. He’s a solid fellow. And here I have languished, in and out of consciousness. My uncle blames me for the loss of his message! He’s furious with me! He’s threatened me, several times!”
My eyebrows went up. This didn’t sound like the Lord Holdhurst I knew. The man was an arch-conservative politician, but famous for his even temper and courtesy. His political reputation was for upholding basically indefensible beliefs by remaining calm and genial until his opponent’s patience ran out, he yelled, and by the laws of British propriety therefore forfeited the debate.
“Do you think you might help me, sweet, sweet Watson?”
“Do you think us to have hearts of stone?” Holmes cried. “Of course we’ll help!”
I sighed my exasperation, but was forced to admit, “There are elements of this case that seem to fall under Holmes’s special purview. Most especially, that note you were tasked with copying. You say it is not quite a letter, not quite a document, that its meaning is changing? It sounds most irregular. Can you describe the thing?”
“No!” Percy howled. “I dare not! Lord Holdhurst was most clear! I can tell you whatever you like about the case it was kept in, but to describe the… item… to anyone is as good as death to me. Oh, when I think of what he would do to me… It’s… no, it’s too much! Oh! Oh! Brain fever!”
He threw the back of one pale hand across his brow, moaned, sank back amongst his pillows, and was still.
Finally.
“What do you make of it?” Holmes asked.
“There are certainly some features of interest. What is this strange document? What kind of thief rings a service bell in the midst of their crime? And…” I stared down at the helpless form of Percy Phelps. “…is it wrong to punch someone in their sleep?”
“I should think so,” said Holmes.
“Yes. Yes, of course it is,” I said, wiping my brow with the back of my sleeve. “I just… I needed to hear it said out loud. Thank you, Holmes.”
No sooner had I opened the door to leave than we were accosted by Joseph Harrison. He’d plainly
been hovering outside the whole time.
“Did he tell you about it? Do you think you can help?” Harrison asked.
“He told us most of his troubles,” I said, “but the case is murky and ten days cold. I’m not confident.”
“Well, did you at least cheer him up enough so I can have my room back? He chased me out so fast, I never even got all my belongings.”
“Ha! I can well believe it. But surely, he wouldn’t mind if you came in to reclaim your things.”
“My sister would,” Joseph growled, “and she never leaves his side unless his mother sends three nurses to watch over him while she sleeps.”
“Well, she’s not in there now,” I pointed out, but was instantly made a liar.
At that moment, Annie Harrison turned the corner, saw Phelps collapsed across his bed and screamed, “Percy! What have those beasts done to you?” She jammed her left elbow into my belly, her right into her brother’s and exploited the resulting gap to force her way into the room, to the side of her fallen love.
Joseph rubbed his stomach and told me, “Just let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you get me my room back, eh?”
He turned and trundled off down the hall. As soon as he’d gone, bleary-eyed Mr. Pixby approached and said, in a discreet undertone, “The master and missus are most distraught. If you are able to bring this matter to a satisfactory conclusion—that is, to repair the young master’s reputation and constitution to the point where he can rejoin civic life, be married and installed in his own home, far from here—Mr. Phelps would be happy to pay you… well… practically anything.”
“I’ll bet,” I harrumphed.
“Will sirs be staying for supper? Shall I prepare chambers for the night?” Pixby wondered.
“No,” I said. I stared guiltily at Holmes. To ask him to travel further was cruel. And yet, it was only an hour by train back to Waterloo… “We’ve already spoken to Percy—the only man in this house who was present at the scene of the crime. There’s nothing more for us here. I think we need to visit the Foreign Office and perhaps seek an audience with Lord Holdhurst. Are you up for a journey, Holmes?”
Warlock Holmes--My Grave Ritual Page 2