Much time passed. I became so ill at times that I could not travel, and so Geoffrey spent more and more time with me here. Madame Farr attempted to ensnare him with messages from his poor first wife, who died most tragically some years ago. It was vindictiveness that drove her: she knew I was wise to her games, and sought to drive a wedge between Geoffrey and me. It only drove us closer together. Geoffrey had first thought I was paranoid, but now saw Madame Farr for what she really was, and vowed to help me mend my family before my time was up. We increased my dose of Fowler’s solution, provided in strict confidentiality by Geoffrey’s doctor, so that I might travel to a London clinic for a blood transfusion. This gave me weeks of comparatively good health; an illusion, perhaps, but a godsend nonetheless. Upon our return, Sally told us that the spiritualists must have found the secret passage, for the servants had been hearing strange whispers around the back stair, as of ghosts. It had got some of the maids into an awful panic. Doughty old Eglinton had dismissed the noises as rats in the abandoned tower cellar, but I knew that in our absence a passage must have been found.
Everything else happened rather quickly. James arranged for a weekend party, and invited none other than Dr Watson, the very writer I had so long admired. He wanted a rational man to proclaim the veracity of Madame Farr’s psychical power from the rooftops, but instead he gave me a means to summon the one man in all of Christendom who could undo her: Sherlock Holmes. The man who had himself “returned from the dead”—who better to defeat a spiritist? This is where I myself engaged in the most unforgiveable deception. I knew that Dr Watson was a chivalrous man, who has more than once gone to great lengths to defend the honour of a lady in need. And so I have rather shamelessly played upon this most noble of traits, in the hopes that Dr Watson will doggedly pursue my murderer to the very end. I hope that he can forgive me.
Our plan was put together hastily, and I rather fear that it has driven an irreconcilable divide between Geoffrey and me. But in the end, both he and Sally agreed to help me in this desperate gamble. I must hope that this, my final testimony, is sufficient to clear them of blame in any wrongdoing, for they acted in accordance with my dying wishes, against their own better judgement, entirely out of love for me.
I know you have all worked it out by now. I was not murdered; not by a ghost, nor by Madame Farr.
I have taken my own life.
Or, rather, I have hurried along my inexorable demise, to a time and manner of my own choosing.
And there you have the start of the plan. Last night, Sally caught Judith and Simon in the act of duping poor Dr Watson. I wanted so much to tell him what I knew, for it was clear he was much affected by their prank. But I needed to guard what I had learned: the location of the secret passage. My own researches into my family’s history had revealed that the supposed treasure was a fanciful myth, but that the secret passage was likely real, constructed out of necessity during the Civil War, and used by Lady Sybille in opposition to its original purpose when she betrayed her husband.
After seeing how Judith had played the part of the ghost, we have arranged for Sally to do the same as Lady Sybille, in order to interrupt the séance at a suitably dramatic moment. She will materialise suddenly, before seemingly disappearing into the sealed tower. I shall have to put on a performance worthy of the stage to persuade everyone that I should spend the night in the tower. Once the tower room is prepared, I shall make a great show of locking myself inside with the only key. Sally will then meet me by entering through the secret passage, and give me a very strange and powerful drug.
This is where another innocent party may well be hurt, and I cannot apologise enough for it. Sir Thomas Golspie is the dearest man, but he has in his possession a powerful poison, which earlier tonight Geoffrey stole from him. He calls it the ‘poison bulb’, and has many times talked to us of its dark effects. I choose this method for several reasons. First, it cannot easily be detected, except by a true specialist in exotic poisons. Were I simply to take laudanum, Dr Watson would be on hand to record a verdict of suicide, and the plan would all be for nought. I know my chosen method will cause the most terrifying, nightmarish hallucinations; but from what Sir Thomas has described in the past, it will also drive me insensible, and is that not a better way to meet one’s end than a slow wasting sickness? Does that make me a coward? Perhaps it does. I doubt very much I shall be in my own mind when the end comes, no matter how agonising it may sound. And I want the mystery to be worthy of the most gruesome penny dreadful. I shall die with a look of horror on my face, and not a mark on my body, within a locked room. I rather imagine our party guests will think the ghost has killed me, while Mr Sherlock Holmes surely will not be able to resist such a tantalising and abstruse puzzle!
The original intent was for me to imbibe the drug before retiring, allowing its slow effect to overwhelm me as I settled down to sleep. But we realised very quickly that none of us have the skilled hand of the herbalist, like Sir Thomas. Then I had thought that I could steal through the secret passage and collect the drug myself before returning to the tower and taking it. Alas, the air in the passage is so thick that I could not go more than a few yards before being overcome, and I caught myself on a protruding nail that tore through my dress and caused me to bleed more than it should have. After that, I knew I had to ask poor Sally to be the bearer of the poison.
As for the rest, I have instructed Geoffrey to tell everything to the authorities when questioned. He knows the risks, but has deemed them worth the cost. Everything that I know of Sherlock Holmes, from the accounts that I have read, depict him as a fair man. I can only hope that he will judge Geoffrey kindly, and heed my plea for leniency.
I have been writing now for too long already, and the hour of this preposterous séance draws near. I shall spend what little time I have left on this earth with Geoffrey.
Adieu, adieu,
E
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A RETROSPECTION
In the immediate aftermath of Holmes’s revelations, there was a great deal to do, and very few members of the household in a fit state to do it.
We were lucky to have on hand Inspector Lestrade, to rally the two exhausted local constables. I shared their weary reluctance to carry out any further tasks; not that we had any choice in the matter. If Holmes was tired, he did not show it, so buoyed was he by the successful resolution of another investigation.
And yet, had we truly achieved success? Crain was a broken man, barely able to string together a sentence. No sooner had the letter been read than he collapsed, and had to be carried to his room. The vicar, so long in the bosom of the family, was now embittered and frightened, and not without cause. Yet his own duplicity would surely cast a shadow on his future relationship with the Crains. And then there was Judith—so long the quiet confidante of Crain, now heartbroken that her part in his deception had surely caused him to reject her. Indeed, Crain Manor was not a happy house.
On the matter of Judith, it was her with whom we dealt first. Lestrade and Holmes found themselves in rare agreement, and after some lengthy ruminations the inspector assured the girl that no charges would be brought against her so long as she swore to testify against Madame Farr and the Cole twins. For Crain’s sake, she wholeheartedly agreed.
The Reverend Parkin was a tougher prospect. His forging of the codicil had been a cynical plot to throw blame upon Madame Farr for murder. If his intentions had been pure, there would have been some recourse to let him off lightly, but this was not the case.
“All that you truly cared about,” Holmes had said, “was increasing the financial provision for your church, at the expense of Madame Farr’s continued liberty. I can think of no less Christian a way to settle one’s score. However, although he was misguided in his actions against you, Lord Berkeley has already provided a rather unorthodox and violent punishment, which you might call retribution, but which I am disposed to think of as your penance. Any man, in such circumstances, would have been forgiven for t
hinking you had killed Theobald Crain, and with such a belief, who could blame his lordship’s son for his anger? Knowing his delicate state of mind, it is that most Christian of virtues, forgiveness, that I would ask of you. If you agree to keep Lord Berkeley’s name out of the police files, and the newspapers for that matter, then I shall not have to ask the inspector here to arrest you. Does that sound fair?”
The vicar expressed an opinion that none of it sounded fair, but in the end he agreed regardless.
“Very well,” Holmes said. “In that case, know this: the late Lord Berkeley made a substantial provision to St Mary’s in his will, and you shall still receive it. He had planned to increase the amount, though you presumed to think he was set to write the church out of his will altogether. It is therefore in your best interests to mend this rift between yourself and the new Lord Berkeley. Perhaps he will honour his father’s wishes. Besides, you cared for Theobald Crain too, did you not?”
This last point changed the vicar’s attitude considerably, and not just the promise of more money. I genuinely think he did care for Theobald Crain—his anger at the old man’s deathbed had been genuine.
The hour had been late indeed when we visited Melville, and we had summoned Sally Griggs, too, that they might share in the knowledge of their fates. Holmes reminded the two of them of the toll their actions had taken on the Crain family, but the deep remorse shown by both was evidence enough that no reminder was required.
“So what is to be done with you?” Holmes said.
“I doubt very much any charges will stick,” Melville said, albeit gloomily. “My fiancée committed suicide, and that’s all there is to it. I must be the one to live with that.”
“Indeed you must,” said Holmes. “But that is not all there is to it! You assisted Lady Esther in her suicide—both of you—and regardless of your reasons, that is a crime. In order to go about this plan, you, Mr Melville—a respectable High Court barrister no less—took a private vehicle without permission, broke into a man’s house, and stole a deadly poison with the sole intent to kill.”
“You make it sound like murder!” Melville’s eyes moistened now with tears, and I felt a pang of guilt at Holmes’s rough treatment of him.
“Not murder, no; although the end result is much the same. But the most serious crime, Mr Melville, is perverting the course of justice. The two of you, and Lady Esther, conspired to pin the blame for nothing less than murder on an innocent party.”
“They were not innocent!” Sally cried, now in floods of tears.
“Quite,” said Holmes. “And that is your only saving grace. Your actions did, in a strange way, bring justice upon a cabal of criminals. You say that the truth was always intended to come out, but when? If I had not discerned Lady Esther’s plan, how long would you have waited to reveal the plot? Would you have let Madame Farr swing for conspiracy to murder?”
“No. Never,” Melville said. “I still respect the law. You have my word as a gentleman.”
“What say you, Inspector Lestrade? Is Mr Melville’s word as a gentleman sufficient to stay the hand of Scotland Yard?”
“In this instance, Holmes, I am not so sure. A gentleman who would stoop to common burglary is not a man to be trusted. And don’t forget, this is the same man who successfully argued for the release of the Bond Street jewel thief, and he was guilty all day long.”
I saw Holmes roll his eyes, and knew Lestrade had said entirely the wrong thing.
“Jack Bloomfield?” Melville asked. “Ah, now I recognise you! Is this all some petty attempt at revenge? If I remember correctly, your sergeant was caught red-handed paying a witness, which threw the rest of your eyewitness testimonies into severe doubt.”
Lestrade went red in the face. “My sergeant was—”
“I warn you, Inspector,” Melville said, “I have friends in high places. You would be hard-pressed to find a judge to convict me; and think of the repercussions to your own station as a result.”
Holmes intervened. “Mr Melville, might I remind you that the deceased woman, your fiancée, had connections at court? I would be wary of invoking friends in high places, when you had a hand in the death of a friend of royalty. That said, I am personally inclined to be lenient. That leniency has limits; threats against my friends in Scotland Yard being chief amongst them.”
A sudden change came over Melville. Here was a man unused to being challenged, but either as a result of his recent tragedy, or of Holmes’s stern disposition, he became cowed, casting his eyes downwards, nodding apologetically.
“I… I apologise, Inspector Lestrade,” he said. “This has been a very trying time. Arrest me, if you must. After all, what have I left, without Esther? I only ask that you show mercy to Sally, whose only crime was loyalty to her mistress, whom she loved. Whom we all loved.”
Lestrade now appeared less sure of himself, and looked to Holmes. “This surely all depends upon whether charges will be pressed. What about this Sir Thomas fellow? Is he not upset about the theft from his house? What about Lord Berkeley?”
“I doubt you will find any man or woman in this house willing to report a crime, Lestrade. Mr Melville, at your earliest convenience you should return to London,” Holmes said.
“Holmes…” Lestrade interrupted, but Holmes ignored him.
“I do not think a man so prominent as you, and so steeped in the rule of law, would attempt to abscond, am I right?”
“I shall take what is coming to me, whatever the consequences,” said Melville.
“Good. I shall write to Sir Thomas Golspie, informing him of all the details of this matter. He might decide to press charges, but I shall advise him to wait until Lord Berkeley is better, that they might discuss the best course of action. It is not for me or Lestrade to decide, for we are not the injured parties.
“As for you, Miss Griggs; until Lord Berkeley has recovered sufficiently to manage his household, it is up to you whether to petition Eglinton for a place on his staff, for no lady’s maid is presently required in this house of mourning. I doubt Mr Eglinton is the type of man to throw a grieving woman out on her ear, and I shall speak with him to that effect. If you wish to remain in service, we might hope that a good reference can be written. Otherwise, the same warning applies to you as I gave Mr Melville: should Lord Berkeley decide to take the matter further, then my opinion matters not one jot.”
Sally Griggs nodded. Melville stood, and shook Holmes firmly by the hand.
“You are not only a clever man, Mr Holmes, but a fair one. I shall not forget this.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Mr Melville,” Holmes said. “Now, Watson, you were grumbling about being hungry. Let us see what we can find for you. Come along, Lestrade—our work here is done, I believe.”
* * *
The next morning, for all Holmes’s eagerness to depart, we were not the first to leave the manor. We learned from Eglinton that the vicar had taken his leave almost at first light. And now Langton was smoking his pipe near the front door, as a footman loaded up the coach with his cases. Mrs Langton had already alighted, looking rather stern.
“Ah, Watson, Holmes,” Langton said, looking not entirely as cheerful as he sounded. “Sorry to beat you to the punch, but I really must be getting back.”
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“It will be, I think. Look, I came clean about the gambling. Constance isn’t in the best mood over it, but I’m sure she’ll come round when she sees things are different now. The thing is… all this… it sort of puts everything in perspective, don’t you think? I paid my last respects to Uncle Theobald just now. They say money is the root of all evil, and it certainly brought ill upon the family. I have resolved to turn around my own fortunes through hard work and fair trade. No more horses. And no more billiards with the likes of Watson!”
“This change of heart seems awfully courageous,” Holmes ventured. “It has nothing to do with Theobald Crain’s will, I take it?”
Langton gave us the
most devilish grin. “Mr Holmes, the reading of the will is not for another week. Any provision left for me and Constance would surely be a mystery until then. It’s not as though a certain solicitor is on hand to let slip some details over a strong nightcap—that would be a terrible breach of professional conduct.” He gave us the most conspiratorial wink, and tapped out the ash of his pipe on the wall. “As I said, Constance isn’t happy about the gambling, but I’m sure she’ll come round. Sooner than you might think. Goodbye, gentlemen, it was a rare honour!”
With that, Langton turned and walked briskly to the carriage, taking his place in uncomfortable silence beside his wife.
“Well I never,” I said, as the carriage trundled off. “I take it Langton has fallen on his feet.”
“He seems the sort who always does,” said Holmes. “Do not judge him harshly, Watson. He is one of life’s chancers, certainly, but his grief at the death of his uncle and cousin seemed genuine to me. If some good has come of all this, it is that Langton has earned another chance. What he does with it, however, is up to him.”
We went back inside, where Cavendish and his wife were arriving for breakfast, with Lestrade beside them. All three had dark rings about their eyes through lack of sleep.
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