by Hugh Ashton
Here Holmes broke in, smiling. “ Were you and your uncle at odds over the issue of this unknown mason ? ” he enquired.
“ By no means. We were unanimous in our puzzlement over the matter. Indeed, we were in one mind on almost everything. In any event, when I arrived downstairs I was astonished. On the desk where we had been working together the previous night was an envelope addressed to a Miss Kitty Bellecharme with a poste restante address at the Larrowby post office. The envelope had been opened, and the contents removed. However, to my surprise, I noted the torn fragments of such a letter in the wastepaper basket in my uncle’s study. The paper had been torn into tiny pieces, so that it was impossible to make out more than a few isolated phrases, but there was one scrap a little larger than the rest on which I could read the words, ‘need more passion’. All else had been ripped into shreds so small that only half a word at most was visible. There was no way of deciphering any more. As you may imagine, my time was limited, as I expected my uncle to descend for breakfast at any moment.”
“ Did you notice a postmark on the envelope ? ”
“ Indeed I did. It was a London postmark, from the SW district.”
“ What did you make of this ? ”
“ I have to confess that I had not the faintest glimmering, other than some form of affaire or intrigue. But such a position would be completely out of character for my uncle.”
“ Maybe it could be intended for one of the servants ? ” I suggested.
Our visitor shook his head. “ My uncle lives very quietly with only a housekeeper and a cook to serve his needs. Both are elderly, and the idea of passion being attached to either is, quite frankly, more than a little ludicrous, if I may say so.”
“ The writing on the scrap of paper that you found, and the writing on the envelope. Were they in the same hand ? ” asked Holmes.
“ It would be very hard to give an answer to that question, given the few words that I saw. I believe that they probably were written by the same person. Now that I come to recollect matters more clearly, they were written with the same pen and ink.”
“ By a man or by a woman ? ”
“ I would have to guess that they were written by a woman, but I cannot be certain of that.”
“ You made no remark to your uncle about the matter ? ”
“ Naturally, I did not.”
“ Very well. Pray continue with your narrative. I perceive that you have more to tell us.”
“ Indeed I do. That very evening, I discovered another event that gave me even more cause to worry. I entered the study, to discover my uncle standing in front of a roaring fire. He turned, with a look of what I would almost have sworn was terror upon his face, the fire blazing at his back. He gazed at me in silence for a good ten seconds or more, I would say, before rushing wordlessly from the room. Immediately I made my way to the fireplace, but all I could see were the charred remains of several sheets of paper in the grate. However one corner had escaped the flames and had fallen onto the fender. Written on it, in my uncle’s writing, were the words, ‘I will always adore you, with all my heart, and I pray that this passion will never—’ and there the words come to an end.”
“ You say the words ‘ come to an end’ in the present tense. Is it possible that you have saved the scrap of paper ? ” Holmes asked eagerly.
“ I have it here,” withdrawing a stout manila enveloped from his pocket.
“ Excellent,” commented my friend, taking the envelope, and moving to the window, where he proceeded to extract a small piece of paper, a few inches on a side, and examined it through a lens, holding it up to the light, without, however, passing any opinion on it. After a few minutes, he passed it to me, and returned to his chair. I repeated Holmes’ examination, but it appeared that I held an ordinary piece of paper in my hand, with nothing to mark it as being in any way out of the ordinary. The writing was in an old-fashioned round-hand style, splendidly legible, and with, to my eyes, a firm distinction of character visible. I laid the scrap of paper down, and returned to my own seat.
“ You are positive that it is your uncle’s hand ? ” Holmes asked our visitor.
“ There is no doubt in my mind as to that fact.”
“ And the interpretation that you put on these words ? ”
“ Surely it is obvious, Mr. Holmes ! This can be nothing other than a copy of a love-letter, a billet-doux, addressed to this Kitty Bellecharme.”
“ It is of course possible,” answered Holmes, “ that this Miss Bellecharme is not the intended recipient of this letter, but is a go-between your uncle and the fair correspondent who addresses him from London. It would, after all, be embarrassing for her letters to be delivered directly to his residence, would it not ? ”
“ That is an alternative that had not occurred to me,” confessed the other.
“ Did you subsequently mention this incident to your uncle, or he to you ? ”
“ I did not. Indeed, he seemed to be avoiding my eye, almost for the remainder of my visit. He did, however, present me with his customary largesse on my departure, and though he appeared distant, there was no hint of hostility in his manner.”
At this point I interjected my thoughts. “ Could it be the case, Mr. Hobbs, that the paper you discovered in the fireplace is not a love letter addressed to a human being ? ” I noticed both Hobbs and Holmes regarding me with an air of puzzlement, and hastened to explain, with some embarrassment on my part. “ Could this have been the remnants of some devotional work, a sermon, perhaps, expressing your uncle’s love of God or some similar sentiment ? ”
Holmes gave me a glance of what I flatter myself was some degree of admiration. “ An intriguing suggestion, Watson. Well, Mr. Hobbs ? ”
“ I do not think that would be the case. My uncle’s religion is of a rather more down-to-earth, and I might say practical, nature. Such sentiments expressed in a sermon of his, or even in his private writings, would be as much of a surprise to me as the discovery of a love-letter.”
“ And yet there was the paper with those words. How many sheets of paper would you estimate were burned ? ”
“ It is almost impossible to say.”
“ One ? Two ? Many ? ” Holmes pressed his enquiry.
Hobbs appeared to be concentrating as he closed his eyes. “ Now I come to recall, there was a considerable quantity of paper ashes in the grate. Perhaps one or two quires—that is to say, between twenty-five and fifty sheets.”
Holmes made no comment on this, but merely remarked, “ Forgive this question, which may seem to be something of a personal one, but do you have any expectations from your uncle ? ”
“ I believe that my uncle regards me as a son in all but name. He has never married, and since the death of my mother, his sister, I believe myself to be his only relative. Our relations have always been of the most affectionate. We were always close, since I was a boy, but since the death of my parents some years ago, he has taken the place of a father in my life. Indeed, he has said as much to me on more than one occasion, informing me that I was to be his principal legatee. He is not wealthy, but he is not a poor man. I have been led to believe that I would earn some two hundred pounds per annum via the interest on the capital sum that is willed to me. My uncle is without doubt an open and honest man, and I have no reason to disbelieve him in this matter.”
“ You are on good terms with him, obviously.”
“ Indeed. As I say, I would regard him almost as a father, until the curious incident that occurred yesterday.”
“ Ah, yes, you mentioned that earlier. The details, if you please.”
“ Imagine my surprise, when I was walking in Piccadilly yesterday evening when I believed I saw my uncle on the other side of the road, walking in the opposite direction to me. He was walking slowly, accompanied by a woman, who was completely unknown to me and whose features were obscured by the scarf that she had wrapped around her face. The fog made it difficult for me to be certain of my uncle’s identity,
but I hailed the man I took to be him, whereupon he looked up, and seeing me, started with an expression of what I took to be recognition, and turned his back on me. As he looked up, I was even more sure that it was he, and that he had recognised me also. I did not feel that it was my place to intrude on his privacy, and so I walked on. After I had walked perhaps fifty yards I turned to look after him, but he and his companion had vanished into the crowds. I confess to having felt slighted by the cut, for which there was no reason that I know of.”
“ You are certain it was he ? ”
“ Indeed I am. It could be no other. Besides, as I said, he appeared to recognise me when I called to him.”
“ And when did you see him last before then ? ”
“ A matter of some two Sundays ago. We parted on the very best and most affectionate of terms, and we had exchanged letters twice since that time.”
“ Was he accustomed to visiting London ? ”
“ Four or five times in the year, I would say. He invariably informed me of his plans, and though I am unable to provide him with lodging at Mrs. Warren’s in Great Orme-street, we spend as much time together as our respective businesses will permit.”
“ Where does he lodge when he is in London ? ”
“ At his club, the Carlton.”
“ Do you know if he lodged there last night ? ”
“ I have not yet discovered that.”
“ No matter. It is simple for us to confirm the fact. Obviously you have not attempted to visit him or to make contact since that encounter in Piccadilly. What exactly do you wish me to do for you ? ”
“ I wish to know what is happening with regard to the mysterious letters and paper that I have discovered, and my uncle’s secretive visit to London. For obvious reasons, I do not wish you to let him know that I have retained you. And on that score ..? ”
“ My fee, I think you will discover, will be well within your ability to pay. Do not fear on that regard. Should, however, I become forced to lay out a little more money than is usual on such occasions, I will inform you.”
“ Very good. Thank you for your assistance. Please contact me at the address on my card. It may cause some raised eyebrows at Connington’s if I am to receive communications from a well-known detective.”
“ Indeed so, Mr. Hobbs. I hope to have good news for you soon. I will retain this paper that you retrieved, if I may. I hope to discover some use for it.”
Our visitor left us, and the door closed behind him.
“ Well, Watson ? ” Holmes enquired of me, as was his wont on these occasions. I do not believe that he asked me these questions with any great faith in my abilities, but used me more as a sounding-board on which he could expound his theories.
“ A pleasant enough young man,” I answered. “ I see no reason to doubt his story.”
“ Nor I. Let us see about this uncle. Pass me Crockford’s, would you, please ? ”
I passed him the clerical directory, and he quickly located the relevant entry. “ Yes, as we were told. He seems to be active in a number of charitable activities.”
“ Blackmail, do you think, Holmes ? An unwise liaison which is threatened with exposure ? ”
“ I would sooner expect it to be the other way around. That is to say, the Archdeacon being threatened with exposure rather than he being the potential publicist of another’s folly. But your notion is by no means without the bounds of possibility.”
“ But you have no ideas at present ? ”
“ None that are definite as yet. I think it is time for me to visit the Carlton. Will you accompany me on this little expedition ? ”
“ Willingly.”
“ Come, then.”
The fog wrapped itself around us as we ventured into the street, and attempted, without success, to hail a hansom to take us to the Carlton. As we walked along the streets, almost deserted, Holmes appeared to be in a brown study.
“ I am in two minds, Watson, as to whether to continue with this case,” he remarked, as we turned the final corner. “ Were it not for the rather outré nature of the events that have been described to us, I would throw it up.”
“ Surely there is nothing in it that can be described as outré,” I objected, “ other than the occupation and position of the protagonist.”
“ Not so,” he answered me curtly. “ There are several points of interest. Consider, for example, the type of paper—a Dartford foolscap, judging by what remained of the watermark. Hardly the kind of paper one would choose to write an intimate letter, even as a draft. There is also the quantity of paper to be considered. Ah, we are here.” We had arrived at the Carlton Club, and Holmes sent in his card, with a request that we wished to see the Venerable Harper-Barrington. After a few minutes, the Club servant to whom we had addressed our enquiry returned with the news that the Archdeacon had left the Club premises shortly after breakfast, and was not expected to return, his luggage having been sent on to King’s Cross railway station, from which he would make his way home.
“ We appear to be somewhat out of luck,” remarked Holmes, as we turned away. As we started along the street, I was engaged in winding my muffler about my face in an attempt to keep the yellow fog from entering my lungs, and so failed to remark the elderly gentleman with whom I came into collision.
“ Dear me, I trust that you are not too badly hurt,” he exclaimed, in a solicitous tone, the parcel which he was carrying having struck against my ribs.
“ Not at all,” I assured him. “ But I perceive that you have dropped something,” I added, noticing some papers lying on the pavement, and stooping to retrieve them. Holmes assisted me to collect the sheets, and I handed them back to their owner, who, I now noticed, was wearing a clerical collar below a cherubic round face, framed by a mane of flowing white hair.
“ That is most kind of you,” he said to me, as I helped him adjust his coat and scarf, which had been disarranged by the collision. “ I was on my way to the Club there, having left there a book which would sadly incommode me by its absence. Maybe I can persuade you, and your friend,” glancing at Holmes, “ to allow me to procure some refreshment on such an inclement day ? ”
At that moment, the Club porter to whom we had spoken earlier caught sight of our little party, and came bustling up to us. “ Excuse me, sir,” he said to my new companion, “ but these two gentlemen was looking for you just now.” He turned to Holmes. “ This gentleman here, sir, is the Archdeacon who you was looking for.”
“ Thank you, Barsett,” said the Archdeacon, looking at Holmes with a new interest. “ I do not believe we are acquainted, sir.”
“ My name is Sherlock Holmes,” my friend answered him. “ Your name was mentioned to me at a meeting of some antiquarian society as an expert in medieval architecture. My informant, whose name unfortunately escapes me at present, told me that you were a member of the Carlton Club here, but was unable to remember your address up North. I came here hoping to discover your address in order to write to you, but it is the most amazing stroke of luck for me to have discovered you here in person.”
The old gentleman fairly beamed at this recognition. “ Bless my soul ! ” he exclaimed. “ Why, certainly, had you any specific question in mind that you wished to ask ? Do, do, come inside and take a glass with me. I insist.”
Holmes and I followed him into the Club, where we were rapidly provided with glasses of sherry, and Holmes and the Archdeacon were soon engaged in a lengthy and abstruse conversation regarding the development of the decorated capitals of pillars to be found in parish churches of that era. I think I have remarked elsewhere regarding the extraordinary depth of learning that Holmes was able to display in so many areas of knowledge—a depth which would have marked any other man as an expert who had spent his whole life studying the subject. It was so in this instance, where Holmes was perfectly at home with the intricacies of the topic, citing sources and authorities with a fluency that seemed to amaze even our host.
“ My dear Mr. Holmes,
” he exclaimed at one point. “ I had flattered myself that I was knowledgeable on these matters, but your learning appears to exceed mine.” Holmes waved a deprecatory hand. “ You must surely come and visit some day. Here is my card. Pray feel free to invite yourself, and your friend, of course.”
“ I hardly deserve the compliment,” protested Holmes. “ But if you would be kind enough to write for me here the name and author of the monograph to which you just referred, I would be most grateful.”
“ Nothing easier,” the cleric told him, writing a few words on a piece of club paper, and handing them over to my friend. “ If you two gentlemen will excuse me, I must collect the book which I left in my room here, and then make my way to the station, where I trust I will be reunited with my luggage, and I will make my way home. A very good day to you gentlemen, and I am happy to have made your acquaintance.”
As we walked back to Baker-street, Holmes was smiling softly to himself, wrapped in his own thoughts, on which I saw no reason to intrude. His first action when we entered our rooms was to take the charred corner of paper that had been presented to us by Hobbs, and compare it with the written sheet that had been given to him by the Archdeacon.
“ The writing is indubitably the same, do you not agree ? More to the point, it would seem that the paper itself is similar, if not identical.”
“ What sort of clergyman would write love letters at his club ? ” I asked.
“ Your reasoning is false on two points,” Holmes corrected me. “ Firstly, even if this paper is club notepaper, which is yet to be proven, that does not mean that it was used at the club. It may well have been removed and used elsewhere.”
“ I grant you that,” I answered. “ And your second point ? ”
“ It is possible that this is not a love letter.”
“ Then what is it ? ”
“ I believe we will discover when we have made another call. This afternoon is an appropriate time, I would say, following a visit to the concert hall. I do not consider that we are engaged in a matter of life and death here, and I have no other pressing business right now.”