The long-suffering landlady cast a despairing glance in my direction, but knew better than to argue with her lodger when he was in such a humour. Scarcely did she leave the room, however, than the door was flung open again, and the gentleman whom I had seen in Baker Street appeared before us. His face was red with the exertion of climbing the stairs, and his brow glistened with perspiration. The look in his gray eyes betrayed a deep anxiety.
‘Mr Holmes, I must apologise for disturbing you in such an unseemly fashion, but I must speak to you!’
My friend frowned. ‘Sir Greville, I fear that…’
‘For pity’s sake!’ the intruder exclaimed. ‘I am at my wits’ end! Will you not allow me five minutes to explain the circumstances that bring me here?’
A curious look passed across Holmes’ face and I saw that, although it was out of character for him to change his mind on such a matter, our visitor’s evident anguish had made an impression upon him.
‘Five minutes, Sir Greville? Very well. Are we agreed that, as soon as that time has expired, you will take your leave upon my indicating that I wish to hear nothing more?’
I could not conceive that our visitor was accustomed to being addressed in so forceful, and indeed humiliating, a manner, but he nodded by way of assent.
‘Very well.’ Holmes leaned forward, and I sensed that his interest was quickening, as if Sir Greville had passed an unspoken test. ‘Pray be seated and explain to Dr Watson and myself what brings you here.’
‘Mr Holmes, you will be aware that my family has lived at Oaklands Hall for generations. Almost one hundred and fifty years, to be precise. But I am the last of the line. My dear wife and I had two sons, but the elder died of consumption when he was nine years old, and the younger within two days of his birth. The difficulties that my wife suffered in labour meant that we were never able to have any further children, and I reconciled myself to the prospect of dying without an heir. Our consolation was a very happy marriage, but some five years ago, my wife became unwell and the final years of her life were spent as an invalid. Because of her illness, I had time enough to prepare for bereavement, but since her death in January, my life has been empty, and frankly I shall not be sorry when the time comes for the two of us to be reunited.’
The old man hesitated, as if overcome by emotion, and I saw Holmes cast a weary glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. Time was running short for Sir Greville to command my friend’s attention.
‘Mr Holmes, some eighteen months ago, I engaged the services of a butler by the name of Meade. His predecessor had served my family for thirty years, but died suddenly of a heart attack. I have always placed high store on the quality of my servants, and my wife was attended by a trained nurse as well as a companion. Meade was a young man with limited experience, but came with an excellent character from the house in the North of England where he had worked previously.’
‘As a butler?’
‘For a few months, yes. Apparently he had started as a manservant, employed by a brother and sister named Drake, but had shewn such devotion to duty that he earned rapid promotion. Miss Drake spoke most highly of him, and emphasised that he would have remained in their employment had she and her brother not decided to move to the Continent. Their loss, she assured me, would be my gain.’
‘And you took her at her word?’
‘Mr Holmes, I am old enough and cynical enough to be well aware that a glowing testimonial may be given by a person glad to be rid of its subject, but I fancy that I am a good judge of a fellow, and Meade impressed me as industrious and keen to learn. Nor was I disappointed. In a very short time, he proved himself indispensable, and his support was invaluable during the last difficult months of my wife’s life. Since that time he has served me with absolute dedication and I have come to regard him – not as a friend, precisely, you will understand, but as a man in whom I may repose the utmost trust and confidence. No one could be more reliable, and if my boys had lived, I would wish them to have been as decent, hard-working and kindly as young Meade.’ Breathing hard, Sir Greville mopped his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. ‘His constancy therefore makes the latest turn of events all the more astonishing.’
Holmes leaned forward. ‘Pray continue.’
‘What troubles me is that Meade has disappeared without a trace.’
‘When was this?’
‘I last saw him on Saturday night. I felt indisposed – Meade had himself walked all the way into the town that morning to purchase some medicines for me – and I retired very early, at six o’clock. He was not due to work on Sunday – that is, the day before yesterday – and I told him that if he wished to take himself off for the evening, that was perfectly in order.’
‘And he has not as yet returned?’ My friend yawned. ‘There may, of course, be many explanations for a servant’s failure to attend his place of work.’
Sir Greville’s stern features creased in a frown and his eyes flashed. For an instant it was borne home to me that this man had once been far more formidable than the ageing and ailing individual ensconced in our sitting room.
‘You have not heard the half of it, Mr Holmes. Let me assure you that Meade is the very soul of reliability. Never once has he failed in the slightest duty. He commands the respect of all my servants, and I can only say that I find him as attentive as he is accomplished.’
‘And what, pray, are his particular accomplishments?’ my friend enquired in a languid tone.
‘He is very capable in all household duties. When my cook was taken ill some months ago, he deputised for her in the kitchen with rare skill. But more than that, he is a talented musician. When, shortly after he arrived at Oaklands, he mentioned that he enjoyed playing the pianoforte, I asked if he would play for my wife one day, expecting little more than a hammering-out of a few familiar tunes, but to my amazement I found that he could play Chopin exquisitely. Even in her final hours, my poor wife found a degree of solace in his skill, and for that alone I shall forever be in his debt. Since she died, I have often asked him to entertain me and he takes such evident pleasure in it, that I once asked him if he had not considered forging a career as a musician. However, he simply smiled and said that he would find large audiences too daunting. I found that quite credible, for despite his natural affability, Meade has always struck me as a person who is happiest in his own company. He would eschew the limelight.’
‘Perhaps he has changed his mind and resolved to seek his fortune elsewhere,’ my friend suggested.
‘No, I cannot conceive of it, Mr Holmes. However, when he failed to return, I looked in his room and realised that he had taken with him his clothes and other possessions.’
‘Did anyone see him leave the Hall?’
‘I questioned my servants, but none of them could cast any light on the matter. He might have left at any time between six o’clock on Saturday evening, and half past eight the next morning. I caused enquiries to be made at the local station, and I learned that a person in a coat and muffler and carrying a suitcase had been seen catching a train to London. This was probably Meade, but it is impossible to be sure. It was apparent that everyone else at Oaklands shared my bewilderment at Meade’s disappearance, which came utterly out of the blue. And then, this morning – I received the following missive.’
Our visitor plunged his hand into his pocket and extracted an envelope which he passed to Holmes. It was addressed, in a neat and curving script, to Sir Greville at Oaklands Hall, and my friend inspected it with as much care as if it were a manuscript written in cuneiform before sliding out a sheet of notepaper which bore a few words in the same careful hand.
Sir Greville,
I must apologise profoundly for the suddenness of my departure from your service. Suffice to say that I could not have wished for a better master, and I thank you for your many kindnesses from the bottom of my heart.
Yours sincerely,
M. Meade
‘You see, Mr Holmes?’ Sir Greville demanded. ‘No ex
planation whatsoever.’
‘You are aware, presumably, that certain items have been found in a ditch not far from your estate?’ my friend asked.
Sir Greville nodded. ‘Indeed, sir. Yesterday, a passing cyclist discovered certain items of bloodstained clothing in a ditch and informed the police. It has become a matter of some notoriety in the neighbourhood. But the clothes belonged to a tramp, Mr Holmes. It is inconceivable that Meade would ever wear ragged things.’
‘He takes a pride in his appearance?’
‘Most certainly. I have never known a man so neat in his attire. You may take it from me, sir, that the garments in the ditch have no connection with Meade.’
‘And you wish me to find Meade?’ Holmes asked, a curious note entering his voice.
‘I do.’ Sir Greville’s voice trembled. He was, I surmised, a man unaccustomed to displaying weakness, but it was plain that he was close to tears. ‘You see, I am a dying man, if my doctor is to be believed, and I wished to repay Meade for his selfless service to my wife and myself. I had it in mind to adopt him as my son and heir.’
Two hours later, Holmes rejoined me in the sitting room at 221b Baker Street, rubbing his hands together and shifting his armchair closer to the fire. Having despatched Sir Greville back to Oaklands Hall for a good rest, with an assurance that he would look into the matter of the disappearing butler, and call upon his client on the morrow, he had promptly disappeared himself, without a word of explanation.
‘Well, Watson, what do you make of Sir Greville’s tale?’
I cleared my throat before replying. I had not been idle during my friend’s absence, and I had managed to make a deduction or two of my own.
‘As it happens, I have fathomed why you expected his visit,’ I announced. ‘You had read a paragraph in the newspaper about the conundrum of the bloodstained clothing, and you inferred that the proximity of the find to Sir Greville’s estate would prompt him to consult you. Quite elementary.’
‘Very good, Watson!’ Holmes clapped loudly. I was not unaware of a tinge of mockery in his response to my sharpness, but his jovial mood was at least a welcome contrast to the world-weariness that had preceded Sir Greville’s arrival. ‘And the story about Meade?’
‘I fancy that, Sir Greville’s belief notwithstanding, the clothing found in the ditch did belong to the butler. If he wished to leave Oaklands for some nefarious purpose, he may well have wished to disguise himself as a tramp. And thus clad, what if some other vagabond set upon him?’
‘Killing Meade and tossing his garments into the ditch?’
‘It is a plausible theory,’ I said, nettled by the sardonic gleam in his eyes.
‘Perhaps,’ my friend said, in a tone that made it clear he thought otherwise. ‘Of course, your supposition fails to explain the note from Meade.’
‘A forgery,’ I announced, with more confidence than I felt.
‘A forgery by a vagabond who can imitate an elegant hand so as to deceive someone familiar with the author’s writing?’
‘Can you offer a better interpretation of the facts presented to us?’ I retorted.
‘My good fellow,’ Sherlock Holmes said with a heavy sigh, ‘have I not lectured you before on the folly of theorising without data? Evidence is what we seek, and evidence is precisely what I have been endeavouring to secure, with the assistance of those grubby young rascals who assist my enquiries every now and then.’
‘Really? And what is the Irregulars’ mission this afternoon?’
‘I have sent them to Camden Town, of course.’
‘Why Camden Town?’
Holmes uttered a low groan. ‘Watson, did the Lord not give you eyes to see? The post-mark on the envelope containing Meade’s note was from Camden Town.’
‘So you believe Meade to be alive and hiding out in London?’
‘I would not go so far as to say that,’ Holmes said, and with characteristic indifference to my protestations, he refused to say another word on the subject for the remainder of the evening.
Holmes and I rose early on the morrow, and ten o’clock saw our carriage draw up outside the imposing entrance to Oaklands Hall. Sir Greville Davidson’s ancestral home was a handsome yet rather stark Palladian mansion, nine bays wide and with a projecting portico. The surrounding estate was large and Holmes had insisted that our driver should follow a circuitous route passing by the ditch where the bloodstained garments had been discovered. It ran alongside a hawthorn hedge at the far extremity of the grounds of Oaklands Hall. Through gaps in the hedge, I glimpsed swans gliding across a small lake fringed by willow trees.
From the shuttered windows of the west wing, I surmised that Sir Greville made little use of a substantial portion of the Hall. An air of melancholy hung about the place, as though the life was ebbing from it, as well as from its master.
In the absence of the butler, a housemaid answered the door and led us directly through a vast entrance hall with elaborately carved door-cases to an octagonal study with views across to the Old Hall and the lake. Sir Greville was seated in one of three leather armchairs; behind him stood a writing desk and walls lined with shelves of calf-bound tomes. Our host’s cheeks were pallid and even a man without my medical expertise was bound to observe that his health was deteriorating at an alarming rate. The disappearance of his favoured servant, less than a twelvemonth after the loss of his wife, was a blow he was finding impossible to withstand.
Struggling to his feet, he extended a hand in feeble greeting. ‘Have you any news?’ he asked.
Holmes shook his head. ‘As yet, there is nothing more that I can tell you, Sir Greville, but there are certain questions that I would like to put.’
‘Naturally.’ Our host waved to the maid. ‘Martha, please bring tea and refreshments for my guests.’
As the girl was about to leave the room, Holmes said to her, ‘Martha, a moment of your time, if I may.’
The maid stopped in her tracks, blushing furiously.
‘Sir?’
‘How did you find Meade, the butler?’
Martha’s shoulders seemed to be stiff with tension. She cast a quick glance at her employer, as if seeking permission to express an opinion. When he inclined his head a fraction, the girl breathed a little more easily, yet I fancied there was something equivocal in her expression. Some knowledge, perhaps, that she did not wish to share with Sir Greville.
‘He… he is a very decent sort, sir. Of course, he kept himself to himself. It was rare for us to converse on a social footing.’
‘You did not know him well?’ Holmes asked.
Again the maid seemed to choose her words with care. ‘No, I cannot claim that I knew Mr Meade well.’
She laid a curious emphasis on the name Mr Meade, but what – if anything – it signified, I could not tell, and within a moment she had scurried off to the kitchen, shutting the door behind her.
Sir Greville turned to Holmes. ‘You wished to interrogate me, Mr Holmes?’
My friend bowed. ‘A few questions only. First, could you provide me with a description of the butler?’
‘He is a relatively short and slender man. I should say no more than five feet six inches in height. He has a thick mop of jet black hair, and a fresh and pleasant face, quite boyish. I doubt whether he is thirty years old, young for a butler, of course. As I have mentioned, he is always immaculately turned out.’
Holmes nodded thoughtfully. ‘Second, did you by any chance retain the testimonial supplied to you by Miss Drake in respect of the butler?’
‘As a matter of fact, I did.’ Sir Greville hobbled to the writing desk, and his arthritic fingers fiddled awkwardly with a key before he managed to unlock one of the drawers. ‘Here, you will see how highly she spoke of him.’
Holmes perused the reference, which was written in a spiky, sloping hand. Miss Emma Drake gave her address as Parkgate Hall in Wirral, and she had taken pains to heap praise upon the butler’s qualities and love of hard work, even mentioning his love of mu
sic, as if to emphasise that a man with taste could be relied upon. In conclusion, she had, in gushing terms worthy of a flowery novelette, expressed her dismay that a move to Europe would deprive her brother Vernon and herself of Meade’s services.
‘Most interesting,’ Holmes said warmly. I shot him a glance, as I saw nothing remarkable in the testimonial, and it was unlike my friend to utter platitudes, but his expression was imperturbable. ‘Miss Drake certainly did her utmost to ensure that her butler found a new position.’
‘Meade lived up to the high expectations she established,’ Sir Greville said. ‘I decided to make him my heir, Mr Holmes, because I felt that a man of his sensitivity and gifts deserved something better than a lifetime of service. I should say that, of course, I have ensured in my will that my obligations to my other servants, as well as to a number of charitable organisations to which my wife and I lent active support in happier times, are amply fulfilled.’
‘But the house and the residue of your estate go to the butler?’
‘Is that so shocking, Mr Holmes?’ the old man asked. ‘Simply because Meade is not a member of my social class?’
‘By no means. Far better that such an estate devolves to the industrious and deserving than some idle good-for-nothing. On that, we are bound to agree. But no doubt the news would cause quite a furore in the district. For a butler to inherit a fortune is sensational indeed.’
‘Certainly, and I was conscious that, after my passing, mischief-makers might suggest that Meade had somehow brought undue influence to bear upon me. With that in mind, I instructed my lawyer to take all possible precaution to ensure that no objection could properly be made to my testamentary dispositions, or to my proposal to adopt Meade as my son.’
Best Eaten Cold and Other Stories Page 14