The book contained page after page of neatly rendered biographical data. Each included a name, followed by age, physical description, significant family members, the dates of readings and spiritualist meetings, and sundry notes. Some pages were partly blank, others filled with minutiae.
I was overcome by a sudden epiphany, and pulled out more of the ledgers, flicking through the pages of each, scouring them for familiar names.
“Watson!” The voice of Holmes came from the stairs, but I was too engrossed. “Watson,” Holmes said again, and now he was in the room with me. “What have you there?”
No sooner had he said it, than I found what I was looking for. A fresh page, headed “Watson, Dr John H.” I scanned the few details, and turned the ledger to Holmes.
“This is how it was done,” I said. “She keeps a record of all her victims, past and future. Every scrap of information she can use is written here.”
Holmes looked at the page intently. “Brother, Henry. Father, deceased; name? And here: these are conversations with Crain. ‘Ordered flowers for Watson and Mary’s wedding. Two-score white lilies; Mary’s favourite’.”
“I had forgotten those flowers had come from Crain,” I said, glumly. “Mary was always so good with that sort of thing, writing thank-you cards and what-have-you. I never really paid attention to the details.”
Holmes flicked through the books as I had done, his brow furrowing more deeply with each turn of a page.
“Oh dear, Watson. This will have to be seized as evidence, but it is rather like prying into people’s most private thoughts. The section on James Crain is copious. Of particular interest is his closeness to Sir Thomas Golspie. Many visits to Sir Thomas are recorded—that will be Judith’s intelligence, I’m sure. It says here, ‘James’s dependency on Sir Thomas grows. Must stop.’ What do you suppose that means?
“And here are notes about Mr and Mrs Cavendish. It says Mr Cavendish had some quarrel with his now deceased former partner-at-law. And here, ah… they lost their child in a boating accident. Madame Farr has written in the margin, ‘Boy or girl?’”
“That’s right,” I said, still reeling. “She asked Jane Cavendish rather leading questions to that effect. She established it was a boy, Charles. She spoke of guilt… Good God, Holmes, this is wicked!”
“Wicked indeed. Is there anything else of import here? I am loath to delay, but this is an opportunity to gather evidence in case that Cole fellow returns. Ho, what’s this?”
Holmes had crouched to look under the bed, and now dragged from beneath it a metal box. It was locked, but that had not stopped Holmes before. The lock was a simple one, and a strong blade and the right technique soon had it open. Within was paper money amounting to some fifty pounds, and a bundle of letters and folded documents.
“There’s no time to sift through all this now,” Holmes said, “but I think I see at last what Mrs Mellinchip’s plan was. She has fooled us all, it seems.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean, we have here correspondence from some relative in the United States—the names are disguised, but the salutations would suggest sisters or perhaps cousins. And here we have a variety of steamer timetables. Look, Atlantic crossings from Liverpool, Bristol and Halifax. Everyone assumed that the mysterious Madame Farr was trying to found a spiritualist mission here in Swinley, to grow wealth and influence and spread the word of her cause. What if her motives are even more selfish than that? We now know she is a criminal evading justice—and analysis of these letters could well help me prove that beyond any doubt. Why would she risk staying here, even under an assumed identity, and remain in the public eye? Better to flee, as far away as possible, to the home of spiritualism.”
“You’re right, Holmes. I expect you’ve squared the circle there.”
“I expect so, too.” We both looked up to see Judith, trembling, eyes moistening with tears, her mouth set most tightly. “You are right, Mr Holmes. You have been right about everything. Madame Farr persuaded me to pass on everything that James told me in confidence. And, for the most part, I did, not out of any desire to defraud the Crain family, but out of love. By assisting Madame Farr in her readings, I helped bring comfort to James, don’t you see? The more convincing she sounded, the more consoled James was. But I never knew any of this. I never knew about this… Mrs Mellinchip. And I only helped her because I believed she had some real power, and wanted to form a church for the good of the community. Never for a moment did I think she was… was…”
“A common thief?” I snapped.
Judith nodded.
“Well, now you know,” Holmes said to her, and less unkindly than I felt she deserved. “Let’s gather these things up and hand them to the constable. Watson, I need you to come with us now—there is quite the scene downstairs.”
Holmes led me back to the sitting room. He stepped carefully over the detritus and righted every candlestick he could find, lighting them to further illuminate the scene. He moved around the spirit cabinet, and peered inside momentarily.
“Melville mentioned that spirit cabinet to me,” I said. “It was used in the séance that Lady Esther tried to upset. She was deceived by the Cole twins, and never knew it.”
I looked to Judith, who said nothing, but only dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief.
Holmes stooped to snatch up some small, gleaming item of polished silver that I had not noticed. I had no time to ask what it was, before Holmes strode directly to a door in the corner of the room, where what I had taken for a pile of laundry lay in a heap. Holmes picked up a large, lumpen sack, and two pieces of torn, crumpled paper beside it, and brought them over to us that we might see.
“It is strange,” he said, “that we entered via an open front door, while at the back of the house there are clear signs of forced entry. Two people clearly fought in here, though neither thought to remove this evidence. Evidence which was earlier seen by Lord Berkeley himself being carried by Mrs Mellinchip’s associate, Mr Cole.
“I believe I can predict the contents of this sack without even opening it, for its singular incongruity with its surroundings mark it as the very item Mr Cole was seen carrying from the manor this afternoon. But, for the benefit of Constable Hardacre, I shall not rely on stage tricks to reveal the evidence herein, but rather on the credulity of our own eyes. So!”
Holmes tipped up the sack, and out tumbled what resembled the contents of a theatre’s costumery. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach, even though I had already guessed what we would see.
A white dress, shimmering luminously even now; another dress, this one of brightest scarlet; a black veil; a bizarre contraption of springs, straps and metal poles, resembling a calliper; an unruly coil of fishing wire; and finally, assorted rags and scrubbing-brushes, some of which sparkled in the candlelight.
“Surely now, Holmes, you will admit that you were wrong,” said I. “The Red Woman’s dress, plain as day! The spiritualists must have an undisclosed accomplice—another woman. Didn’t someone suggest earlier that Judith herself might have a twin?”
“And I said before that it was unlikely. Besides, she is a local girl, is she not? It would be a trifle to ascertain the truth. As for another accomplice, it would be difficult to come and go in and out of a busy household like that. Not impossible, but nearly so. Cole only managed it because of his identical twin. Another girl would have to be almost a ghost herself. What say you, Judith?”
“I have never seen that dress before,” she answered meekly, “save for the night when the Red Woman appeared. And there is no one else in our circle, save for Madame Farr, Simon and Arthur, and myself.”
“A likely story,” I grumbled, ignoring the girl’s glare.
“No, Watson—set aside your personal feelings for the moment. I have a theory about this, which even now takes shape in my mind. And I tell you that, on balance, it is unlikely the spiritualists were responsible for the appearance of the Red Woman.”
“Holmes, please forgive
me, but I think you are now guilty of clinging to a theory in the face of overwhelming evidence.”
Holmes smiled. “Then I shall, ultimately, be guided by every immutable fact that science can provide. From chemical testing of the luminous paint on the dress against that found on Judith’s slipper, to the certain residue of paint from the window-frame of the drawing room left behind on that fishing line. I shall comb every detail, and no court in the land will be able to ignore such forensic scrutiny of observable evidence. Mrs Mellinchip might like to ask the spirits for advice on this matter, but I imagine she will find them rather wanting in the face of sound logic and rational deduction. But that evidence, Watson, will also show some irregularities, I am certain. And in those irregularities, we shall get to the bottom of this mystery.”
I sighed at Holmes’s stubbornness.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but what about this mess?” Hardacre asked. “What happened here?”
“The clue lies with this,” Holmes said, unfolding the torn papers he had found on the floor. He smoothed them out, and held them aloft together, to reveal two parts of a whole parchment, upon which was printed “Last Will and Testament: Codicil”. “Whoever was involved in the fracas here doubtless fought not over the evidence, but over this. And I believe that our friend Mr Cole was not involved—not unless he was somehow subdued. Otherwise, the sack would not have been left in plain sight for us to find. No, Constable, I think I know what has happened here, and by the time we return to Crain Manor I shall have a full explanation for you. But first, we must locate Lord Berkeley.” At that, Holmes handed me a small, silver box. Its lid was engraved with a pair of intertwined snakes, crudely rendered in bold, zig-zag lines.
I opened it, and although it was empty, there was some powdery residue, with a strange, herbal scent.
“You recognise it, Watson?”
“It is identical to Sir Thomas’s snuff-box.” I spun the little box around and saw on the underside the engraved letters “J. H. C.” “Crain’s initials,” I muttered.
“Yes. And therefore it is not used as a snuff-box, but as a pill-box.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. I do not recognise whatever this is within though. I expect it is a residue from the iboga pills that Sir Thomas made.” I passed the box back to Holmes.
“So you see,” he said, “we can now place both Crain and Parkin here. The vicar was last seen following Mr Cole. And we know that he was snooping around the late Lord Berkeley’s study. I think this codicil is a forgery, and a rather hasty one at that. Look.” Holmes held up the paper to the light from the window. “The document has been recently drawn, and although the penmanship is very fine, it was done with no real eye for detail. A learned hand, but not that of a master forger. The signature of Lord Crain is close to the hand I observed in Lord Berkeley’s study, but the flourishes are all wrong. The curves have been made slowly, by someone copying a signature too carefully, without the requisite practice—you can tell by the uniform concentration of ink—a sepia blend, such as we found in Parkin’s room. Lord Berkeley would have made this mark in a quick sweep. I could make a comparison with those bills of lading back at the house, but I am as certain as I can be that this is a forgery, and a poor one.
“The second signature is Cavendish’s. Another forgery, taken from the letter that Parkin asked him to sign last night. It is too blatant a deception to hold any water at all in court, for Cavendish would surely deny ever having signed it. We shall of course ask Cavendish later to compare this document with Lord Berkeley’s real will, and such a direct comparison will doubtless be required by a court. For now, it is a trifle to assume that this was written by the Reverend Parkin, and the amateurishly direct stipulations would support the theory. Look here: ‘In recognition of the great service done to my son, James, Madame Adaline Farr, of Swinley, is to receive fully half the provision formerly reserved for the Church of St Mary’s, as stipulated in my Last Will and Testament’.”
“Why on earth would the vicar demand such a thing?” I asked. “Does this not run counter to his desires?”
“Of course it does, Watson. Why else would it be here? If it were genuine, the precise sum would be listed, not some oblique reference to the master document. Parkin knew that the codicil would be found a forgery. He wanted to hide it here in Madame Farr’s home, to be discovered by the police.”
“Really? But the struggle… perhaps he—or whoever forged the document if not he—merely dropped it during some fracas.”
“Let us assume for now that this codicil did belong to Parkin. Why would a document in the possession of the vicar, and a bag of incriminating evidence carried by Mr Cole, both be left behind in this house?”
“I don’t like to think Crain could be involved in such a sorry business, Holmes,” I said. “For all we know, the two men chanced upon each other in the house, and the vicar bested Cole. He might have left before Crain even got here.”
“Do you think that possible? The description you gave of the vicar was indicative neither of athleticism nor belligerence. And then what? Did he kill the man and drag the body away somewhere?”
“I suppose he could have…”
“Watson, I fear you are allowing your loyalty to your friend to cloud your powers of deduction. There is a simple way to find out for certain. Did you see the neighbour spying on us as we approached?”
“I did.”
“Then let us see what she has to say.”
Moments later we were standing outside the neighbour’s cottage, waiting for the hesitant, shuffling footsteps on the other side of the door to reach us. Soon a bolt was withdrawn, and the door opened to reveal a beady eye fixing us warily.
“Madam, I am Mr Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend Dr Watson.” Holmes tipped his hat. No response was forthcoming. “We are here on a matter of the utmost urgency, as part of a criminal investigation,” he continued, unperturbed. “We believe you may be of singular assistance to us.”
“Me? Why?” The old woman’s voice was thin and sharp as a blade.
“Because, madam, you strike me as an observant and shrewd woman, and a good neighbour, who might take an interest in the comings and goings hereabout. One never knows when there is mischief afoot.”
The door opened a trifle wider, revealing more of the woman’s wizened features, and the dingy cottage behind her, the mirror of Madame Farr’s.
“Living in such proximity to Madame Farr, I suppose you cannot fail to have overheard a commotion earlier today?” Holmes said.
“Always queer sounds coming from next door,” the woman said. “Rapping and bumping—it’s the spirits, so they say.”
“And what do you say, Mrs—?”
“Dallimore. I say I’d rather not court such things, for good or for ill. So I keeps me own counsel on the matter, ’n’ that’s that.”
“Very wise. But earlier—something perhaps even more unusual. A fight?”
“Aye, I heard it.”
“But you did not report it to the police?”
“I did not. And if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not be involved now, neither.”
“I understand entirely, Mrs Dallimore. But trust me when I say that this is of the utmost importance. You will suffer no recrimination for helping us.”
“How can you say that?” The woman scowled. “There’s higher powers round here than the law.”
“You mean, perhaps, the Crain family?”
I glanced askance at Holmes, and Mrs Dallimore looked rather caught off-guard.
Holmes adopted a more soothing tone. “Mrs Dallimore, please. A great tragedy has befallen that family, as you may well know. Passions are running high, and even the best of men might be driven to rash action. We wish only to help restore order, and you may speak to us in the utmost confidence. Please, Mrs Dallimore, we would be indebted to you for any information you could share.”
“How indebted?” the woman asked, brazenly, her eyes narrowing rather slyly.
H
olmes sighed, and fished around in his pocket. “I can offer the sum of four shillings.”
“Make it five.”
Holmes nudged me, and with an even greater sigh I handed over a shilling from my billiards winnings.
“Start at the beginning, Mrs Dallimore,” Holmes said. “Leave out no detail.”
We stood on the doorstep, the door providing a barrier between us and the reluctant witness, as she recounted the facts according to her recollection. She had seen “that queer fellow”, meaning Simon, return to the house shortly before two in the afternoon, and soon after leave again through the back gate. She had not seen him since. Not long after, the vicar had arrived. He had loitered for a few minutes, before trying first the front door and then the back. Mrs Dallimore was not sure if the vicar had entered Madame Farr’s house or not, but half an hour later she’d heard “the most awful hue and cry”, which she had first mistaken for one of Madame Farr’s rare daytime séances. Mrs Dallimore claimed she saw or heard nothing more, until she was alerted by the sounds of the vicar’s carriage leaving the vicinity—but of course, Holmes and I both knew that the vicar had not arrived in his fly. When she looked through the window, she saw the vicar and James Crain driving off. The only unusual detail she recalled was that Crain had been the driver.
“One more thing,” Holmes asked, as we were about to take our leave. “How long have you lived next to Madame Farr?”
“Oh, about a year, maybe less. Since his nibs moved her in here. Used to be Frank Higginbotham’s place, this, but he died. I s’pose it’s been nice for Frank to have someone to talk to. He never did like living alone. ’Spect I’ll be able to ask him meself, afore long.”
* * *
“Now do you see, Watson?” Holmes asked as we gathered near the coach. He kept his voice low so that Benson might not overhear. “Let us piece together the sequence of events. Cole, whichever of the twins it was, arrived back at the house and deposited the bag of evidence. He exited soon after along the back lanes. His intention could only be either to escape, or to return to Crain Manor in the hope of receiving some instruction from his mistress.”
Sherlock Holmes--The Red Tower Page 21