I’d groaned. “Holmes, there’s really—”
“Don’t mention it! Now, Watson, I know I said I would not press you for an answer, but I really do need to know if I should advertise your old room. Baker Street’s not the same since you left. I have some fascinating cases to review, and it would be helpful to me if my chronicler would return. Even if he possesses a penchant for the dramatic.”
“Making fun of me will not hasten my decision.”
“Then what will?”
“I must consider carefully Dr Verner’s offer,” I said. “He will take good care of the practice, I’m sure, and the remuneration is perfectly fair. But there is the matter of the house… and the memories it holds.” Holmes, to his credit, had said nothing. “Some time away will do me good. I shall go to Crain’s weekend party, and afterwards you shall have my answer.”
With that, it had seemed we were both satisfied. And yet the bleakness of the day brought with it regrets at accepting the invitation, for reasons that I could not rationally fathom. I was just cursing Holmes’s naysaying when at last a dog-cart arrived by the station gate, and my name was called.
CHAPTER TWO
CRAIN MANOR
We took the winding lanes around the fringes of a great forest, some still virgin and black as night, through whose tangles I glimpsed occasionally with some small thrill the odd barrow, or Iron Age earthwork. On paper, Crain Manor was favourably located, being almost equidistant between Windsor Castle and the royal hunting grounds of Easthampstead Park. In reality, however, it was tucked away between hills and forests, and modern roads had apparently not yet extended to Lord Berkeley’s estates.
My coachman, Benson, was an earthy man, prone to chatter, mostly about horses. I learned in detail the names of the best hunters and racers he’d stabled at Crain Manor, the ones that had been sold on to the royal stables, the winners he’d groomed at race tracks across the country, and so on. Indeed, once he had fixed on the topic, it was difficult to snatch a moment’s peace.
We passed through Swinley, which Crain had mentioned to be the nearest village, some five miles from the manor. It was the sleepiest little place one could imagine, a huddle of low stone cottages with nary a sign of industry. The local church was old, and in dire need of care. It was telling that the village pub, the Green Man, was both larger and better kept than the historic place of worship that faced it across the street.
When at last we came to Crain Manor, it was not at all as I had imagined. A weekend party at a country house conjures images of lazing in the sun, or playing a round of croquet upon manicured lawns. I could envisage little of that as the carriage ascended the sloping drive, flanked by gnarled, ancient trees which formed the approach to an imposing, rambling house of dark grey stone and black mullioned windows. I had rather expected an austere, classical building, as one often found these old families living in. But Crain Manor was an awkward conglomeration of architectural styles, speaking of a long and tumultuous history. Eroded gargoyles peered from shadowed cornices, more in keeping with an abbey than a country residence. The great entranceway was more modern in style, but the eastern wing was dominated by a tall, round tower, draped generously in blood-red ivy and looking oddly out of place—as though it had been plucked from a castle and reconstructed on the side of the house stone by stone.
There was no good reason for a rational fellow to feel apprehensive, but that is exactly what I felt. The sky was overcast, grey as the ancient stonework, and there was a chill in the air, and these things conspired to make me shudder. I chided myself for my foolishness, and thankfully, as the carriage came to a halt, so too did my strange fancies.
A footman opened the door of the carriage, and James Crain himself descended the steps of the manor to greet me, arms outstretched, a boyish grin on his face.
“Watson, my dear fellow.” He beamed.
I greeted him in kind, shaking his hand warmly. Then I noticed someone standing a little way behind him; a young woman, whom I had at first mistaken for a servant.
Crain must have noticed my distraction, for at once he introduced us. “This is Judith. Don’t mind her! Judith, this is Dr Watson.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” I said.
The woman nodded, her expression unchanging as stone. She could perhaps have been described as pretty, were she not so sullen. I could not fathom the familiarity with which she was treated—she was dressed plainly, almost like a governess, and I did not take her for a lady. I looked quizzically to Crain.
“I see you have inherited some of the detective’s eye from your famous friend,” he said. “Judith is my companion; she’s tasked with following me about, in case Mama wishes to communicate with me. These things can happen at any time, you know, and we need someone on hand to interpret the signs.”
“Ah,” I said. “A spiritualist.”
“Ho! Don’t sound so incredulous. We must keep an open mind. Come along now, I’ll show you to your room and then we can take tea. You must be hungry after your journey.”
As I followed Crain into the cool shadow of the house, I cast a furtive glance behind me. Sure enough, Judith followed at a respectful distance.
I was thankful to be inside the house at last, for it was considerably more traditional in its style than the forbidding exterior suggested—reassuringly so. We crossed a great hall, brightly lit by stained glass and a domed lantern window above. Many doors led off left and right to various rooms and broad passages; glimpses of a dining room, a large drawing room, a comfortable lounge, and a parlour bedecked with leafy plants all passed by before we ascended an elegant staircase. A three-sided gallery swept around the upper floor of the hall, and carpeted passages trailed off in all directions.
“Most of what you see here was rebuilt after a dreadful fire in 1775,” Crain said. “It’s been like this for over a century now, but Father still calls it the ‘new’ part of the house, as his father did before him. Now, I’ll warn you, the manor can be a bit of a labyrinth. The other guests will be staying in the west wing, and the servants will be back and forth there for the rest of the day, getting things ready. We’ve put you in the east wing with the family so you are not disturbed.”
“Most kind. What’s through there, might I ask?” I nodded along the gallery, to a medieval-looking door which was open upon a stone staircase. It looked like something out of a fortress.
“That’s the oldest part of the house still standing. The Red Tower.”
“Because of the ivy, I suppose?”
“One might say so… We don’t use it—only three of us in the house, you see, since… Well, it’s not like the old days. We could put you up in there if you’d prefer, although it’s a bit gloomy, and cold to boot.”
“No, no, that’s quite all right,” I said, perhaps a little too readily. I saw at once that Crain was making a jest, and I was glad of it, for the entrance to the tower induced a strange, prickling sensation at the back of my neck. “I am sure the accommodation you’ve arranged will be more than adequate.”
“I think this one has the sense.”
I turned, surprised to hear Judith speak. She looked past me, first to the tower stair, and then to Crain. Although her features never changed, her blue eyes shone with inner strength and passion.
“You feel something?” Crain asked her.
“The departed have left their mark on that tower, sir, as well you know,” she said. “Your friend feels it, too: he must have the sense. What a blessing.”
Crain beamed at this.
I smiled politely. “Let me guess… the tower is haunted,” I ventured.
“I wasn’t going to say it, but yes, actually. It’s said that the ghost of Lady Sybille Crain roams the tower sometimes. I’ve never seen her, but then, I don’t have the sense, unlike the two of you.”
Crain continued on his way, and I followed him to my room with an inexplicable feeling of apprehension.
* * *
After refreshing myself I jo
ined Crain for tea, which was served in a grand conservatory at the rear of the manor; an impressive, modern construction of wrought iron and glass. The room was filled with large exotic plants (“Most of them gifts from Sir Thomas,” Crain explained). On a bright day, I imagined, this glasshouse would be pretty indeed, but unfortunately the heavens had opened, and the pattering of April rain reverberated through iron casements, rippling like applause in a theatre.
“Lord Berkeley—will he be joining us later?” I asked, in a bid to break the latest uncomfortable silence.
“He’s out with the estate manager,” Crain said, looking almost relieved. “I offered to go for him, with the weather taking a turn, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Won’t be much longer. Even when he’s home he tends to keep to his books these days, but he’ll join us for dinner.”
I had hoped for lighter conversation with Crain, to catch up on old times, and yet that was made difficult by the persistent presence of Judith. She sat apart from us, never engaging, but always within earshot. Whenever Crain began to talk of Mary, I felt uncomfortable, as though the young woman in the corner was eavesdropping. Perhaps I did her a disservice, for she always appeared engrossed in her sewing or reading if I glanced in her direction. And yet still, the private thoughts of Mary, which I would have been more than willing to share with a mutual friend, were not for the ears of the spiritualists. I confess it: I mistrusted them. I could not be sure if all their ilk were as bad as the ones I had encountered in Blackheath, but I did not want to take the chance.
“It would do you well to talk about her more,” Crain said at last. I do not think he realised just why I was being so guarded. “Mary, I mean. One thing I’ve learned is that talking about those we have lost is healthy.”
“Crain, please do not think me unfeeling on the matter,” I replied. “It is far from the case, I assure you. But time has passed. I have grieved for Mary, and now look to the future, as all must.”
Crain looked downwards, and sipped at his tea. Judith turned the page of her book.
“Ah, this must be Dr Watson!”
I had heard no one enter, and now I turned at the sound of a woman’s voice, expecting to find James’s sister. Instead, I was confronted by a striking woman of perhaps fifty years, a vision in a high-collared dress of black crepe, which along with her dark, tightly curled hair set off her pale complexion most starkly. Behind the woman, standing near the door, was a rangy man of similar age. He was possessed of an unruly beard, and was altogether too scruffy to be a servant in the Crain household.
I rose at once, and the woman held out a slender hand closeted, rather unusually, in a black lace glove.
“Watson, this is Madame Farr,” Crain said, rising also.
“I have heard so much about you,” the woman said. Her voice was strange, with an accent that squirmed away from any attempt to identify it. Her thin lips curled into a smile that would have seemed warm and genuine, were it not for the coolness in her dark eyes.
“Nothing bad, I hope,” I jested.
Madame Farr inclined her head as though she did not understand. “You mourn.” It was not a question.
I glanced to Crain before replying. “I have mourned, but no longer. I find time to be a great healer.”
“Ah. Physician, heal thyself. But trust me as one who knows, Doctor: to set aside one’s grief is to deny it. To deny it is to forget. You do not want to forget your wife, do you?”
I took a breath. It seemed to me that Crain had brought me here specifically for a little show from his new friends, and now it felt rather like an ambush.
“Madam, nothing could be further from the truth. I honour Mary by living a life, as she would wish.” Was there a flicker of a smile on Madame Farr’s narrow lips when I said Mary’s name? It was information she doubtless already had from Crain, if not from my own published work, but suddenly I felt as though the slip had betrayed some weakness on my part, that it might represent the first in a line of such errors, unwittingly giving the spiritualists some intelligence they could use against me.
“We do not dishonour the dead,” she said. “Far from it. But they are with us always, Dr Watson; we might choose to deny our hearts, and ignore the messages of the dear departed. Or we can choose to open our minds, and listen.”
“Even if that were so, it is my belief that we must all look to our own futures, rather than dwell upon the past.”
Madame Farr stepped forward, her dark eyes fixed on mine, and before I knew it she had taken both my hands in hers. “And what of that future, Dr Watson? I sense you have an important decision facing you.”
“Important?” said I. I could only think that she referred to my practice, and whether or not I should sell it. “I would not call it so.”
“Ah, but the other party might?”
Had I slipped? Had I implied with my words that another party was involved? Or was it simply that Crain had mentioned all this in passing before my arrival?
“He might indeed, madam,” I said, “though I should doubt it.”
“A friend. A famous and formidable friend,” she said.
“This is common knowledge,” I replied, tiring somewhat of the game. She spoke now of Holmes, of course, and yet I had seen more impressive feats of deduction from my friend on many occasions, without the need for spirit-guides and crystal balls.
“I should warn you, Doctor, that your friend has made a request of you for the most selfish of reasons. To fall into an old regime will do you little good; indeed, it may even put you in danger. Sometimes, the hardest path is the one we must tread alone, but it is also the most rewarding. This is a sense I have, and I am sure it comes from Mary.”
“Mary?” I frowned. “Mary is gone, and can counsel me no more.”
“Is she? Like all men, you believe the dead are gone, but not forgotten. And yet once you accept that they are beyond reach, you will forget, no matter how hard you try otherwise. Day by day, you find it harder to picture her face. Yes, I see her clearly, Doctor. It is my gift. My belief is that the dead are not gone, and need never be forgotten. They can reside here with us, if we let them. We can speak to them. Some—those with ‘the sense’—can even reach out and touch them. What would you give, Dr Watson, to touch your wife’s pale cheek once more? To hold her dainty hands in yours?”
At that, I withdrew my hands from hers. She had chosen her words very deliberately, for had I not used similar words to describe her in my own story some years ago? But what of Crain? How much had he told Madame Farr about my personal life? Or, at least, how much had Judith overheard? I tried to push aside such thoughts, for I knew Crain would not have intended to cause me hurt.
“Who is this?” I asked, nodding to the man by the door. “We have not been introduced.”
“This is Simon,” Madame Farr replied. “He is my assistant—my amanuensis. From him, I gather much strength. Forgive Simon—he speaks little, which is why I listen to him when he does. Simon, you may leave us now.” She waved her hand at the man, and he sloped away without a word, his long limbs carrying him awkwardly, yet quietly as a church mouse.
“I wonder if I might excuse myself,” I said. I felt my colour rise, and did not want to upset my host on the very first afternoon by delivering my soul upon the subject.
“Oh, I have made you uncomfortable!” Madame Farr said. “I must apologise, Doctor. It was not my intention—it is merely the depth of my belief that drives me. I hope you will come to see me as a friend before this gathering is at an end. For now, perhaps I should leave you two alone for a while.”
“Not quite alone,” I said, and looked to Judith, who at once averted her eyes and pretended she had not been paying attention.
“As good as,” Madame Farr smiled.
“Come on, Watson,” Crain said. “Finish your tea—we can talk about all this later.”
“Oh, I do hope not!” Another voice joined the throng, and this time I turned to see a finely dressed young lady enter, a well-attired maid in tow.
Her voice was musical in its lilt, her features delicate and paper-white. Her auburn hair shone like polished copper in a crepuscular shaft of light that appeared only at her arrival. She walked slowly, taking only small steps, and passed Madame Farr as if the woman were not there, before greeting me with all the warmth of family. “How do you do, Dr Watson? So sorry I wasn’t able to meet you sooner.”
“My sister, Esther,” Crain said, helpfully.
“Lady Esther,” I said. “Finally we meet; your brother has told me all about you.”
“I’ll bet. I imagine he’s made me out to be dull and unimaginative because I don’t have time for his silly table-rapping games. Frightful, isn’t it? Oh, I’m sorry, Madame Farr, I didn’t see you there; I trust you are well.”
Madame Farr smiled coolly, bowed her head, and shrank away. She said nothing, but the daggered look she threw at Lady Esther was unmistakable. If Esther noticed, it did not show. Indeed, the warmth of Lady Esther’s smile and the lightness of her tone banished all darkness from the room—Madame Farr included. The spiritualist took her leave without another word.
“I must say, James has been simply dreadful for keeping you from us for so long,” Esther went on. “He must have told you that I’ve read all your stories.”
“He may have mentioned it, Lady Esther.”
“I suppose you find it tiresome, hearing of it all the time, but we must speak of Sherlock Holmes. Will you ever write about his adventures after he dispatched that terrible Moriarty fellow? I for one would love to know what he got up to!”
“It is not tiresome to me at all, my dear lady,” I said, fully enchanted by her manner. “Holmes is ever a mine of inspiration, of intrigue and, at times, of annoyance—but he is certainly never tiresome. He is, however, remarkably tight-lipped on the subject of his hiatus. Although I’m sure Holmes would not mind me telling you a few anecdotes from what I know—as long as you promise to keep them to yourself, of course.”
“How kind of you, Dr Watson. And rest assured, I shall take your secrets to the grave.”
Sherlock Holmes--The Red Tower Page 2