Crain staggered back against the wall, shaking uncontrollably. “Hate you…” His voice was very quiet now. “Is that not the least you deserve? Do you know what you have done to me?”
“I think I do,” Judith said, and in the candlelight I saw tears glisten upon her cheeks. “But fear of your rejection is the one thing that stopped me from confessing. Because you see, James… Lord Berkeley… I love you. I have loved you from the first day we met here at this cottage. And I don’t believe you ever knew it.”
“Oh Lord…” Crain said, in a broken whisper. And then, loudly, he cried, “What have I done? Oh God!”
Crain raised the knife, and my heart fair stuck in my throat. Time slowed to a crawl. Crain took a step forward, and I knew not if he was about to bring the dagger down upon the vicar, or whether he meant to attack Judith. The girl stood there regardless, as though she would accept whatever fate her love deigned to deal.
“Watson!” Holmes shouted. I was dimly aware of the revolver in his hand. Did he urge me to get out of the way, or to stop Crain from doing something irredeemable?
I would not lose my friend, either to a blade, a bullet, or incarceration. I sprang forward, mustering all my speed and strength, reaching Crain even as the knife plunged towards his own stomach. I barrelled into him, flattening him against the wall, taking the wind from him. The blade flashed to the floor. I sank to my knees, Crain sobbing uncontrollably in my arms.
* * *
Once the surge of energy pursuant upon his rash crime had subsided, Crain fell into exhaustion, and a malleable, child-like state. I feared the worst for his health: the drugs he had taken had allowed no time for natural grieving, and the succession of shocks were too much for him to bear. Not least of these shocks was his loss of faith; Madame Farr had been his greatest comfort in dark times, even though we now knew that “comfort” to have been the worst of all worlds. Crain’s eagerness to embrace spiritualism had given him false hope, forcing him now to confront the most awful truth—that he must grieve for his mother, father and sister all at once.
We bundled Crain into the vicar’s fly, and Holmes instructed me to drive him back to the manor, while Benson would take the rest of us, including the wounded vicar. I had argued at first for Parkin to be returned home to his own bed, but Holmes convinced me otherwise. My bag was at Crain Manor, and I might need it to treat the man’s wounds, which were thankfully superficial. And besides, Holmes had said, everything must be straightened out satisfactorily, so that all parties over whom a cloud of suspicion hovered might receive justice or absolution accordingly.
We arrived back at the manor cold, tired and hungry. It gave me only a modicum of cheer to see a few lights burning within, and a small sense of relief when we were greeted by Eglinton, who told us that he had received a new guest in our absence. How great a surprise and a comfort it was when we were greeted on the front steps by a familiar face.
“Lestrade!” Holmes said. “Better late than never.”
“Late?” Lestrade said with a frown. “Scotland Yard does not grind to a halt whenever a civilian snaps his fingers—even one such as you, Mr Holmes. I’ll have you know I have worked a double shift to be here.”
“I am certain the Yard will remunerate you, Lestrade,” Holmes smiled, “just as soon as you return to them successful in resolving a diabolical scheme of fraud and poisoning. Not to mention the favour you are about to do for one of the great old families of England.”
Lestrade considered this as if for the first time, and seemed to rather puff up at the prospect of the Crain family being in his debt.
“When did you get here, Lestrade?” I asked, instigating pleasantries, for it was clear Holmes was not about to.
“About an hour ago. I would have got here sooner, were it not for some fallen tree on the tracks near… What-ho, who’s this?” Lestrade nodded to the bedraggled forms of the vicar and Crain, the former helped to the manor by the driver we’d hired at the village, and the latter being half-carried by Benson. Judith loitered behind, for Crain had not so much as glanced in her direction, if he was even lucid.
“Allow me to introduce the Reverend Parkin,” Holmes said with absurd cheerfulness, “and Lord Berkeley, the former Lord Beving. They are in urgent need of refreshment after a… minor mishap, shall we say? Come along, let’s all get inside.”
We had taken but two steps into the hall when we were spotted by the party, and met first with annoyance at their continued detention, and then with great curiosity and concern for Crain and the vicar. Servants were sent for, hot water, tonic and blankets fetched, and soon Crain and Parkin were attended to, though kept separate, lest any ill will resurface. It took no small time to quell the house-guests, during which Holmes brought Lestrade into our confidence.
“You have been made aware by now of the circumstances?” Holmes asked the inspector.
“I have heard a good many tall tales since I arrived at this house, Holmes,” Lestrade said. “Those constables have appraised me of what I hope are the facts, whilst everyone else seemed content to tell me ghost stories over supper.”
“Supper!” I groaned.
“There will be time to fill your belly when our work is done,” Holmes chided. “Lestrade, I shall give you the full facts of the matter in private, later. For now, know this: the spiritualists are wanted felons in Newcastle, for the crimes of fraud and poisoning—that latter charge was never proven, but has been repeated here, the victim being none other than poor Watson. The appearance of the mysterious Red Woman that I’m sure you’ve heard all about, and the death of Lady Esther Crain, have nothing to do with the spiritualists, save that they provided an excellent cover for the true culprit.” Holmes leaned in conspiratorially, and lowered his voice. “I am about to upset several members of this party, Lestrade, by making accusations I cannot yet prove. I assure you, I shall provide all the evidence you could want by the time this night is done, but only with your help.”
Lestrade looked to me. “My, my! Did Sherlock Holmes just ask for my help?” He smirked.
“Concentrate, Lestrade, for time is short. I need you to back me to the hilt, in the most officious manner you can muster, if you can bring yourself to offend your new hosts.”
“Well… it had better be worth it, is all I’ll say.”
“It will be. Especially as the man most likely to have his feathers ruffled is the esteemed barrister over there, Geoffrey Melville. You’ve crossed his path a time or two, if I recall correctly.”
Lestrade glanced over Holmes’s shoulder at Melville, who was standing aloof from the clucking and fussing of the others. “Oh yes,” he said. “You remember Jack Bloomfield, the Bond Street jewel thief? It was Melville that got him off, and I tell you that man was guilty as sin. Procedural errors, he said. On the part of my men! Procedural errors, my eye! And tonight, he didn’t even remember me, or pretended not to.”
“Then you may yet live to see him squirm,” Holmes winked, “though no more than is strictly necessary.”
“And, erm… Holmes… the vicar and his lordship. What’s the real story? Gentlemen’s disagreement?”
“Something like that,” Holmes said. “I hope that it will not require your intervention, though that will depend on how magnanimous Mr Parkin is feeling when our business is concluded. Now, are you ready? Good!” Holmes turned and cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he called loudly, bringing the chatter at last to an end. “May I have your attention. It has been a long and trying day, and the time has come finally to bring these distressing matters to a close.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SECRETS REVEALED
“When I arrived at Crain Manor this afternoon,” Holmes said, pacing the hall, “it was with every confidence that the mystery would be solved by dinner time. Perhaps this was due to my own hubris. In truth, I broke one of my own rules: I was prejudiced regarding the facts.”
This was a fine thing for Holmes to admit, and I could scarce believe my ears.
“By dinner time, far from seeing the case resolved, I was further from the truth than ever. And yet my digressions had brought me to a deeper understanding of the puzzle that lay before me. Indeed, now we have several crimes to consider. First, the poisoning of Watson. Second, the attempt to defraud James Crain through confidence trickery. Third, the forging of a codicil to the late Theobald Crain’s will, in order to make Madame Farr appear a murderess. This point may be news to you all, and I shall come to it in good time. For now, I shall give this codicil to Mr Cavendish.” Holmes removed the now tattered paper and handed it to the rather overawed solicitor. “For safekeeping, and an expert opinion,” he explained. “I maintain that the death of Lord Theobald Crain was a natural one, but it was precipitated by the sudden and tragic passing of his beloved daughter, Lady Esther, and her death was anything but natural. That is not to say she was murdered by a vengeful spirit, but rather by mortal hands.
“I have met with obfuscation at every turn during this investigation, and the time has come to interview the one person who has so far eluded me: Lady Esther herself.”
“What is the meaning of this?” Melville cried. “Would even you, the great Sherlock Holmes, deign to resort to table-rapping to solve a case?”
“Not at all, Mr Melville. I merely suggest that the evidence left behind by the victim will, in this instance, be more telling than any amount of testimony from the living. And to that end, I must be somewhat indelicate in my search. Inspector Lestrade, you will come and bear witness; we shall make a search of Lady Esther’s room.”
“You will do no such thing!” snarled Melville.
“We do not need your permission, Mr Melville, if Lord Berkeley gives us his. Lady Esther was not yet your lawful wife. Lord Berkeley?”
“Do whatever you need to do, Mr Holmes,” Crain said wearily, huddled beneath his blanket.
“What is your purpose?” Melville asked.
“My purpose is to put an end to this sorry charade once and for all,” said Holmes. “To reveal the truth of Lady Esther’s death and, I might add, to save you from the gallows.”
“Me? Of all the ridiculous—”
“Hardly ridiculous!” Holmes interrupted. “For all appearances, it looks as though you murdered your fiancée. Do not look so outraged, Mr Melville, for I know it is nothing more than an act. I suggest you save such theatrics for your closing statements in court in future.”
“No one has ever dared speak to me this way,” Melville said, drawing himself up to his full height, and staring at us down his nose.
“Which is precisely why you have managed to get away with it so far,” Holmes snapped. “The evidence, incomplete though it is, suggests that you, with the aid of your fiancée’s lady’s maid, stole a potent African drug—Boophone disticha, to be precise—from the home of Sir Thomas Golspie yesterday evening. Whilst feigning a headache that supposedly kept you in your room, you actually crept from the house and took the Reverend Parkin’s fly, making sure first to distract the vicar with a faked note. This was to ensure that, should a servant see the fly leaving or returning, she would attest that the vicar was indeed out and about, and everyone would assume that he had gone out in his own conveyance, which was why he was late for dinner. The note was a mistake on your part, Mr Melville, for the letters were carefully trimmed from several newspapers, most of which were particular to London, and at least one of which was from Thursday’s Financial News. Besides Watson here, I believe you were the only guest to travel in from the City.
“In truth, it was you who took the fly. Under instruction from Sally Griggs, and carrying a key to the back door which she doubtless provided, you entered Sir Thomas’s home. You knew that Sally’s mother was hard of hearing, and would be unlikely to notice you as long as you were careful. You knew also that Sir Thomas’s dog is old and lethargic, and would be unlikely to raise a fuss. And so you crept upstairs, found the key exactly where Sally had told you it was kept, and took the drug from its strongbox in the library. The entire enterprise would have taken no more than ten minutes, allowing you to be back for dinner, albeit a few minutes late and wet from the rain.
“At this point, it had not been agreed upon to hold a séance, but Lady Esther must have surely guessed that this was her brother’s reason for holding the party.”
“She knew my intent,” Crain interjected, glumly.
“Thank you, Lord Berkeley,” Holmes said. “Then it stands to reason that she would have discussed this matter with her fiancé, and expressed her strong opposition to it.
“You could not have known, Mr Melville, that Lady Esther would later volunteer to spend the night in the Red Tower, unless, of course, it was you who first suggested it. After all, procuring the poison bulb powder at no small risk shows premeditation on your part. Perhaps you intended to administer the poison regardless, but I rather think not.
“You see, as a local girl, Sally Griggs would have heard about the supposed secret passage in Crain Manor, and could easily have shared that knowledge with you. It would have been a simple matter for a servant to spy discreetly upon Madame Farr and her entourage, which is precisely what she was doing on Friday night, when she saw one of the Cole twins help Judith out of the passage, and let her into Watson’s room. Whilst they were distracted, Sally must have slipped into the passage and investigated its extent, discovering the secret way into the tower. While there, she found that the spiritualists had been excavating the abandoned cellar for some time, looking for the fabled buried treasure, but coming up empty handed. However, the discovery of the passage, and the connection to a rather gruesome episode in the family history, doubtless gave Mr Melville and Miss Griggs an idea. Now, the plan fell into place.
“Together, you plotted to interrupt the séance by having Sally dress as Lady Sybille, the fabled ‘Red Woman’, using the passage to disappear into thin air. This was an act of genius, I must confess; Madame Farr must have known then that the game was up, but could say nothing.
“The preparations were made for Lady Esther’s vigil in the tower room. At some point, the poison was administered, perhaps using the same trick that the spiritualists used on Watson, dissolving it in her water—water that Sally would have brought for her. Slowly, the poison would have gone to work, causing first fitful dreams, then nightmares, then rousing Lady Esther to wakefulness, probably in a painful manner. She might have tried to reach the nightstand to drink more water, an act which would only have hastened her demise. She would have suffered hallucinations. I wonder, would Sally have been required to make one final appearance as the Red Woman? Whispers were heard in the walls not long before the household was awakened. Was it you and Sally, meeting in the secret passage, preparing once more the Lady Sybille costume? In Lady Esther’s state, it would perhaps have been unnecessary, but it would have added certainty to the plot: the sudden appearance of a murderous ancestor in the room would have caused Lady Esther’s heart to race beyond human endurance. She screamed in terror, and literally died of fright.”
Crain sobbed as Holmes spoke these words, and Holmes paused, a look of regret on his angular features. I think perhaps he knew he had been beyond indelicate in his summation; his thrill at clinical deduction so often got the better of him.
Presently, Holmes continued, though his manner was mor
e subdued. “As to your motives, who can truly say? Watson here saw a strange scene between yourself, Sally and Lady Esther on Saturday, which looked like the aftermath of some argument. Had Lady Esther uncovered some uncomfortable fact about your relationship with Sally Griggs? Watson’s observation the previous night, of you and Miss Griggs in an embrace in the morning room, would support this theory. Ah, I see this is the first you’ve heard of that! A man of your standing could not allow such a scandal. Alternatively, James Crain’s threats to disavow his sister might have been a worry to you. Perhaps she had expressed her intention to leave Crain Manor with nothing, for she certainly seemed to be a woman of principle. That would have made her a less attractive match to an ambitious London barrister, I dare say.”
“I thought you were saving me from the gallows, Mr Holmes,” Melville growled. “It rather sounds as if you are making a case to send me there.”
“I concur,” said Lestrade. “I may as well arrest him now, because such a testimony would surely be enough to convict any man.”
“Ah, but I said this is how the case against Mr Melville appears. This is what I meant when earlier I said I had come to an incorrect conclusion. The facts, such as I could find, supported my hypothesis. But facts are a curious thing: when they are incomplete, they can lead even the best of us astray. There are several elements that do not ring true from that first theory. Add to that several other complications, and we have the makings of a far more ingenious plot.
“First, as Watson will swear, the whisperers he heard in the passage that night were both female.”
“That’s true,” I said.
“One might wonder, therefore,” Holmes went on, “whether Madame Farr and Judith had entered the secret passage to ensure their own plot had not been uncovered. Madame Farr was, after all, fully attired when she made an appearance in the early hours.
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