Sherlock Holmes and the Lady in Black

by June Thomson

  ‘Get your coat on, Watson and make sure you have the car keys!’

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked, bewildered by this sudden turn of events.

  ‘To Barton, of course,’ he retorted, as if I should have known that all along. ‘Come on! Hurry up! Mrs B will be here at any moment and she will keep us here for hours.’

  The remark was something of an exaggeration but I took his point and, having gathered up my keys, my coat and my stick, I followed him out of the door to the car, feeling harassed.

  My sense of inadequacy was suddenly changed to one of exasperation. Much to my dismay, Holmes seemed to have reverted to his old idiosyncratic behaviour of his Baker Street days, selfish and demanding, which at times had strained our relationship almost to breaking point.

  Turning on the engine, I asked, keeping my voice as level as possible, ‘I know we are going to Barton, Holmes. But where exactly is Barton and which road should I take?’

  There was a silence in which I wondered if I had exacerbated the situation when to my relief, I hear him laugh and, when I turned my head, I saw he was observing me with a very apologetic grin.

  ‘I am not sure myself,’ he admitted, ‘but it is somewhere off the road to Lower Melchett we took the other day. So go to Fulworth, take the Melchett road and, after that, we shall have to follow the signposts.’

  Smiling back at him, I put the car into gear and drove up the lane, turning to the left at the top of the hill on to the Fulworth road. Halfway down, I caught a glimpse of Mrs B on her way up to the cottage, I assumed, bending low over her bicycle as she toiled up the slope. She was wearing her hat with the bunch of cotton violets decorating the brim, her house shoes and her overall stuffed into the basket on the front of the handlebars.

  I was about to raise a hand in greeting but as Holmes made a hasty gesture of dismissal, I refrained from acknowledging her presence and so we passed each other on the road as if we were strangers.

  Having arrived at Fulworth, it was easy to follow the signposts, first down the familiar route to Lower Melchett and then, at a crossroads, to take a turning to the left to Barton, about five miles to the north.

  Like Lower Melchett, it was some distance from the sea and situated in a similar landscape of gently rolling meadows and pastures. Slightly larger than the other village, it boasted a small high street comprising a butcher’s, a grocer’s and a newsagent’s cum post office. There was also a school, a two-gabled, red-brick building with a wooden belfry for summoning the local children to their classrooms, two public houses, the Crown and the Red Lion, and a church with a tower that had its own belfry, as well as a large churchyard stretching out behind a flint wall.

  It was here that Holmes told me to stop and I pulled over to the verge near a gate leading on to a gravelled path that in turn led to the church. Before I had a chance to switch off the engine, Holmes had climbed out of the passenger seat and was striding purposefully down the path to the church porch where he stood waiting impatiently for me to catch up with him.

  ‘Now Watson,’ he said when at last I joined him, ‘I suggest we divide the churchyard into two sections, you take the right-hand side while I take the left.’ He stopped at this point to look sharply at me. ‘You know what we are looking for?’

  I could easily have pleaded ignorance or given some facetious reply such as ‘a pot of gold’ but good sense got the better of me.

  ‘The Lockharts’ grave?’ I suggested, keeping my face straight.

  ‘Exactly,’ he agreed. ‘Now let us make a start. Call me if you find it.’

  In any event, it was Holmes who made the discovery, which he announced with a triumphant ‘Halloo!’ such as signals the sighting of a fox in a hunt, and waved his arms to beckon me to join him.

  Unlike the graveyard at St Botolph’s, this one, St Michael’s as we found out later, was well maintained, the grass between the graves cut close and the graves themselves planted with flowers or rose bushes or, in some instances, covered with a layer of glittering coloured stones, like outsize bath crystals, that seemed out of keeping with the more sober style of the rest of the memorials.

  The Lockharts’ grave displayed the more muted attitude to death. It was marked by a plain white marble cross on the base of which rested a book, also of white marble, open at a double page, on the left-hand leaf of which was inscribed a column of names, while adjacent on the right-hand side were the dates of the births and deaths of each individual, under the general heading IN LOVING MEMORY. Seeing it, I could not help comparing this simple family tombstone with the large, ostentatious sarcophagus dedicated solely to Henry Trevalyan that dominated the crypt of St Botolph’s.

  Holmes, who had produced a notebook from his pocket, began to jot down the details of one of the inscriptions that read: Eleanor Trevalyan, born 17th April 1827 – died 4th November 1879.

  ‘So we now know Mrs Trevalyan’s full name and Mrs B was right when she said she wasn’t buried with her husband …’ I began but before I could complete the sentence, Holmes silenced me with a quick thrust of his elbow into my ribs and a nod of his head to the right.

  Following his gaze, I saw a short, self-important looking figure standing at the foot of the grave and watching us with bright-eyed attention. His curiosity reminded me of Mrs B’s inquisitiveness but while hers had been obvious, his had a more intelligent edge to it. Realising Holmes and I were aware of his presence, he stepped forward holding out a hand in greeting.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help you, gentleman?’ he asked. ‘By the way, I’m Lionel Larkin, one of St Michael’s churchwardens. Are you by any chance interested in genealogy? If you are, I may be able to assist you. I have made quite a detailed study of some of the local families. It is quite a hobby of mine.’

  ‘Really?’ Holmes replied. ‘Now that could be most useful, Mr Larkin. As a matter of fact, I am researching into my late grandmother’s background who may be related to the Lockharts.’

  I knew Holmes was lying shamelessly but it was in a good cause and he kept the same bland expression as he added, ‘I should be most grateful if you could tell me where the Lockharts used to live. I have not been able to trace any addresses for them.’

  ‘Oh, that is no problem, Mr …’

  ‘Gifford,’ Holmes put in. ‘James Gifford. And this,’ he continued turning to me, ‘is an old colleague of mine, Frederick Swayne.’

  Goodness knows where he had acquired the name but it came so pat that it seemed it must have been familiar to him. Anyway, there was no opportunity to ask and all I could do was to shake hands with Lionel Larkin who remarked, ‘Delighted to meet you, Mr Swayne,’ before turning back to Holmes.

  ‘I can certainly give you the Lockharts’ address, Mr Gifford. It’s Abbot’s Farm, along Martin’s Lane which is over there to the left past the Red Lion,’ pointing a finger. ‘You’ll see the farm on the right about half a mile down the lane. It’s a lovely location. I do hope you can find your antecedents, Mr Gifford,’ he continued. ‘I have had so much pleasure searching for mine. It can lead to such interesting results. For instance, I discovered that I myself am connected to the Swaffhams of Orpington. In fact, I might have inherited the title and become Sir Lionel Swaffham, if only my father had been a Swaffham. I went especially to Orpington to look at the family house; a beautiful mansion with a lake and a tennis court. To think I could have inherited it all!’

  As he was speaking, I felt Holmes stiffen beside me and I wondered what Larkin had said to catch his interest so suddenly. Even Larkin himself, absorbed though he was in his own genealogy, became aware that he had talked for too long and lost Holmes’ attention for he broke off to add, ‘But I mustn’t take up more of your time, Mr Gifford, and yours too, Mr Swayne. It has been such a pleasure meeting you both.’

  It was said with such genuine sincerity that I began to feel guilty, that we were cutting him short, a point I made to Holmes as he hustled me out of the churchyard to the car.

  ‘My dear Watson,
you are much too patient with the Larkins of this world. If we had not made a move, he would still be chattering on about the Swaffhams. However, to give him his due, he has unwittingly done us a great service by directing us to a new and crucial line of investigation in our inquiries.’

  ‘Has he? What line is that?’

  ‘You will soon find out,’ he replied infuriatingly.

  We had reached the car and, as we got in, he added, ‘Stop at the post office on the way, there’s a good fellow. There’s a little bit of business I want to do before we go to the farm.’

  Whatever the ‘little bit of business’ involved, it was a good half an hour before Holmes finally emerged, looking very pleased with himself.

  ‘Now to Abbot’s Farm,’ he said, giving me a sly, sideways glance, ‘but not too fast, Swayne. I would like to admire the countryside as we go.’

  ‘Swayne!’ I exclaimed, remembering it was the name that Holmes had given me earlier. ‘Why Swayne? Who was he?’

  ‘If you must know, he was a very skilful pickpocket who robbed Sir Lionel Swaffham of Orpington of a valuable watch and chain.’

  ‘Oh, Holmes!’ I protested. ‘Be serious!’

  ‘Then, to be serious, if you insist, I really cannot remember who Swayne is or was. He is obviously someone from my past whom I hope is an honest citizen, worth remembering. Anyway, what does it matter? It shall be your alter ego from now on. What does matter is my decision to have a telephone installed in the cottage.’

  ‘Really?’ I was amazed. ‘But I thought you disliked them.’

  ‘I still do. But I see your point and I shall accept it. So let us proceed to carrying through the next piece of useful advice that I have been given this morning.’

  ‘Whose advice is that?’ I asked as I started the engine.

  ‘Lionel Larkin, of all people.’

  I was even more amazed.

  ‘But …’ I began.

  ‘I know, I know.’ Holmes interrupted me tetchily. ‘However, one lives and learns, according to that infuriatingly smug axiom. So let us try putting it into practice, shall we?’

  He waved a hand towards the road to indicate to drive on.

  It was only a short journey down a lane lined with trees and broad grassy verges, overflowing with cow parsley and pink willowherb and those long-stemmed daisies that grow in abundance in the ditches.

  As Lionel Larkin had told us, Abbot’s Farm lay to the right. It was a large, rambling house, built partly of ancient brick and tile, some of it beamed and plastered, its roof thatched in places, the windows mullioned. It seemed not to have been constructed by human hands but to have grown out of the earth like the trees and the wild flowers that surrounded it.

  I drew into the side of the road and switched off the engine and the two of us sat there gazing at it, as if enchanted, the silence broken only by an unseen bird that was singing its heart out somewhere across the road among the sunlit leaves.

  After a few moments, Holmes stirred and murmured, ‘Ah! I see now what Larkin meant about location.’

  ‘Do you want to go up to the house?’ I asked.

  ‘What, and shatter the dream? No, no, Watson. Never. Let it sleep. But you can see now, can you not, my antipathy towards the telephone? Imagine that ringing out, breaking the stillness and silencing the bird. But I realise it has its uses. We must go on following Larkin’s advice and find the other location.’

  ‘What other location?’ I asked, a little bewildered by his answer.

  ‘The one we have not yet seen,’ was his only reply and I had to be satisfied for on the drive back to Fulworth, he made no further reference to it, turning the conversation to a dissertation on Greek philosophy and other topics quite unconnected to the Lady in Black investigation.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Three days later the engineer arrived to install the telephone and, while we waited, Holmes and I took ourselves off for what was almost the holiday that Holmes had invited me to Fulworth for in the first place. He was in a good mood and we spent the time very pleasantly, walking on the Downs, admiring the countryside and the glimpses of the sea between their gentle grassy slopes, eating luncheon at the Fisherman’s Arms, where we were warmly welcomed by the landlord and his regular clients, and, of course, going down to the cove where we sat on the Lady in Black rock, as Holmes had christened it, peering up at Fulworth Hall, or what could be seen of it through the surrounding trees, or watching the waves come creeping in up the beach.

  Mrs B had been allowed the day off when the telephone was installed, in order to give the engineer a clear, uninterrupted run and on Holmes’ instruction it had been located in his workroom, out of earshot of any eavesdroppers, a choice made with Mrs B in mind, I suspected. As the guest, I was given the honour of baptising the instrument, so to speak, by making the first call to my wife to ensure all was well and to be assured myself that she was in good health and that my locum was managing my practice without any problems.

  Holmes made the second call to Harold Stackhurst, whom we had not seen for several days, to inform him he could now be contacted via the telephone, and to give him the number. As I left the room, I heard Holmes exclaim ‘Really?’ in a surprised tone of voice, as if Stackhurst had said something quite unexpected and when he returned downstairs he still looked astonished.

  ‘Harold Stackhurst has just told me he is getting married!’ he announced.

  ‘Married!’ I repeated. ‘Who to?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Perhaps to the mother of one of his students,’ I suggested.

  ‘We shall find out on Saturday evening. Stackhurst is giving a party at The Gables to celebrate the betrothal to which we’ve been invited.’

  ‘You’ve accepted?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course, I would not miss it for the world,’ he replied before repeating half to himself, as if still astonished by the news, ‘Stackhurst getting married! There must be romance in the air, like a fever. I wonder if anyone else will succumb to the infection.’

  ‘Not Ian Murdoch and Maud Bellamy, I hope,’ I protested, thinking of the occasion when Holmes and I had last seen them together, and Murdoch had shown a disturbing inclination, I thought, to control her.

  Holmes gave a little shrug.

  ‘There is no point in speculating about it, Watson. Besides, it is none of our business. All I can suggest is we buy a bottle of champagne for the happy couple, flowers for the bride-to-be and assume a pleasant expression on Saturday evening whatever the outcome. I also advise both of us to forget about it in the meantime and concentrate instead on our own more immediate concern, the solution to the Lady in Black inquiry, which reminds me. I must telephone Langdale Pike and give him my number. Oh, what a mixed blessing that wretched instrument is! If I am not careful, people will start ringing me day and night. Ringing! What a suitable verb for the dreadful clamour it makes. But whatever happens, Mrs B must not be given the number or she will be ringing me from the local post office, wanting a little chat.’

  He postponed his call to Langdale Pike until after breakfast, returning from his workroom a little later in a much more jaunty mood.

  ‘At least that is something to rejoice about,’ he announced. ‘Langdale Pike has completed those inquires I asked him to make. He will be coming here tomorrow afternoon to discuss the case with me.’

  ‘He is coming here!’ I asked, much surprised by the news. As far as I knew, Langdale Pike rarely left his London club.

  ‘Indeed he is. He has arranged to hire a car and a driver and will arrive here about three o’clock. I think it’s his way of repaying the debt he owes me for all the titbits of gossip I gave him for his newspaper column.’

  ‘But how on earth did you manage to persuade him?’ I asked.

  ‘By offering him a sweetmeat,’ Holmes replied.

  ‘What sort of a sweetmeat?’

  ‘The promise of an exclusive interview with Lady Agatha Crispin-Jones about her trip to Africa to go big-game hunting.’
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  ‘And how did you arrange that?’

  ‘By promising her the publicity she would acquire through Pike’s article on her derring-do when faced with hungry lion.’ Giving me one of his self-deprecatory lopsided grins he added, ‘I telephoned them both to set up the arrangement. So I admit it has its uses even though I still dislike it intensely.’

  The following day we had a hasty luncheon at the Fisherman’s Arms before returning to the cottage in good time for Langdale Pike’s arrival.

  Not having met him before, I was most curious to make his acquaintance, knowing very little about gossip writers and their way of life, although I gathered from Holmes that Langdale Pike made a very comfortable living at what seemed to me to be a rather dubious profession, hence his ability to afford a hired car and chauffeur.

  He was older than I had imagined with silvery-grey hair swept back on each side of his forehead from a centre parting and pale blue eyes that had a steely look to them, despite the languid, rather foppish air suggested by his flowing cravat and the ring with a dark red stone that he wore on the little finger of his hand, which I suspected was intended to deceive the unwary observer into thinking of him as being a rather foolish fop. As far as business was concerned, he had a brisk almost curt manner that was apparent in his dismissal of his chauffeur who was given half a crown and told to decamp for an hour after which time he would be needed back sharp on the dot, for the drive back to London.

  His manner changed, however, as soon as he turned to address Holmes. His voice took on a languid drawl and his vocabulary blossomed with exotic foreign epithets, mostly French, like a garden coming suddenly into bloom.

  Holmes, who was evidently used to Pike’s method of dealing with his business affairs poured him a large glass of port and seated him at the head of the table while he and I each took a chair at his side.

  ‘Now,’ said Pike, opening a stylish leather case which bore his monogram in gold letters and taking out a notebook, ‘the Lockharts. Your contact at Barton, Lionel Larkin, was quite loquacious about them. According to him they are a well-to-do family who have been farming their land for generations. But after that, he had very little to say, apart from giving me a dissertation of his own genealogical connections with some minor gentry whom I have never heard of who live in Orpington, of all places. So,’ he continued, opening his notebook with a business-like efficiency and flattening the first page with the palm of his hand, ‘I took your advice and went to Birmingham, a great improvement on Barton, where I acquired some very useful information.’