The Lambs Lane Affair (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale Book 5)

by Steven Ehrman

  “Samuel, I hardly expected to find you here,” he said. “Though I gather we are on similar errands.”

  “I suspect we are,” said Johnson. “Mr. Holmes, allow me to introduce David Highlander and his wife, Sylvia Highlander.”

  Holmes nodded at both without rising. David Highlander bore a certain degree of resemblance to his father, as a son naturally would, but was shorter and stouter. He seemed somewhat ill at ease, but that was not surprising. Many people seeking the aid of Sherlock Holmes walked through the door with the same manner. His wife, Sylvia, was a handsome woman with dark hair. She was dressed in the fashion of the day, and she carried herself with confidence.

  “And would this other gentleman be Mr. William Benton?” he asked.

  “Indeed I am, sir,” replied the man. “It was my poor sister who was murdered. How could such a thing happen?”

  “That is what we are here to discuss with Mr. Holmes,” said the lady sharply.

  “Of course, Sylvia,” replied Benton. “But it is my sister who has been killed.”

  “Yes, and my father stands accused,” said David Highlander. “I believe it shall drive me mad.”

  The man fell into a bit of a swoon, and he collapsed on our sofa. I realized that his uneasy manner had hidden great emotional distress just under the surface. His wife sat primly by him and waited for him to gain control of himself.

  “Mr. Highlander, if you have come to engage my services, I fear that Mr. Johnson has already become my client,” said Holmes.

  David Highlander looked at Holmes, and then to Samuel Johnson with a vague expression of alarm.

  “Samuel, you do not believe that father has committed this foul crime, do you?” he cried.

  “Of course not,” replied the suave financier. “I have already explained to Mr. Holmes that your father has lost his senses, at least temporarily.”

  “That is certainly the case,” said Mrs. Highlander. “Even William does not believe it, and as he has said, he is an aggrieved party.”

  “Is that so, Mr. Benton?” prodded Holmes.

  “It is, Mr. Holmes,” said the dark man. “I cannot see Mr. Highlander bludgeoning and stabbing poor Anne.”

  At the mention of the bloody crime scene, Sylvia Highlander’s flinty reserve broke. Tears sprang into her eyes, and I feared the lady would have a spell as her husband had. I reached for my handkerchief, but I was beaten to the punch by William Benton, who pulled his own from his jacket pocket and handed it to the lady. She accepted with thanks, and dabbed at her eyes with the borrowed piece of cloth.

  I noted at once that Holmes had observed the exchange very closely. It occurred to me that he had thought that, perhaps the lady’s grief had been feigned. Her response had seemed quite genuine to me, but if Holmes discerned something more he was keeping his own counsel as usual.

  “You are late of the army?” asked Holmes of William Benton.

  It seemed that the lady’s display of emotion was not going to deter my friend from the investigation, as he quickly put the focus back upon the question at hand.

  “That is so, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Your family has a long military history, does it not, Mr. Highlander?” asked Holmes.

  “No, Mr. Holmes,” said David Highlander in some confusion.

  “Now, surely I have heard differently,” said Holmes. “I had thought that the Highlanders had served the crown for generations.”

  “There may have been the odd member of the family in the military, Mr. Holmes, but there is no family tradition.”

  Holmes lit a pipe and remained silent for a minute. He finally looked up and returned his attention to William Benton.

  “I have heard that you were in India,” Holmes said.

  “I have only returned in the past six months, sir.”

  “Do you have any relations in England?”

  “Anne was all I had left, sir,” he replied, and this time I thought I detected tears in his eyes.

  “What of friends?” asked Holmes.

  “None, save the two in this room, of course,” said Benton. “I’m afraid all my chums are still on the subcontinent.”

  “I see,” said Holmes. “And your sister, likewise, was largely alone in England?”

  “That is so.”

  “That is odd.”

  “Why is that odd, Mr. Holmes?” asked Johnson.

  “Only that someone knew the lady well enough to have a motive to kill her, and yet her circle of friends and acquaintances was seemingly quite small,” said Holmes.

  “You think that I may have been the target, Mr. Holmes?” asked a perplexed William Benton.

  “It is possible,” replied Holmes. “But we have the same difficulty. You are quite alone as well.”

  Holmes’s logic was, as always, unassailable. I saw concerned expressions of the faces of all in the room, save Mrs. Highlander. Her expression was one of exasperation. She finally could contain herself no longer.

  “Then perhaps it was just some tramp, or common burglar,” she burst out. “It has always seemed to be the most likely explanation to me.”

  “That simply cannot be the solution, Mrs. Highlander,” said Holmes calmly.

  “And why not?” challenged the lady. “It seems to me that you men are making a mystery here where none really exists.”

  “Calm yourself, Sylvia,” David Highlander pleaded.

  “The lady asks a direct question, and it deserves a direct answer,” said Holmes. “The note threatening the life of Miss Benton precludes the idea that this was a murder by someone not acquainted with the lady. Whether Harold Highlander wrote the note himself, as he now claims, or someone else wrote it, the idea of a passing stranger as a perpetrator is not defensible.”

  Mrs. Highlander had listened patiently to the words of Sherlock Holmes. At his conclusion she appeared to be on the verge of gainsaying him, but something stayed her hand and she remained silent.

  “Then what is the next course of action, Mr. Holmes?” asked Samuel Johnson. “I believe I can speak for the group when I say that we are in your hands.”

  I saw nods from those assembled at the statement from the stockbroker.

  “As uncomfortable as it may be,” began Holmes, “we must eliminate Miss Benton’s known associates from consideration. I will need to know where each of you were during the crucial time in question.”

  “Do you mean we are to be suspected?” asked Sylvia Highlander. “Why, what motive would any of us have for such a foul crime?”

  “Let us leave motive aside for now,” said Holmes. “For the moment, let us see if we can eliminate each of you simply by lack of opportunity.”

  “But, Mr. Holmes, the police have not questioned us about our movements. If they do not suspect us, why should you?” asked Harold Highlander.

  “Mr. Highlander, the police have dropped the investigation in its entirety because of the confession of your father,” said Holmes with a sigh. “They believe that the case is at an end. If you do as well, I suggest that you come to terms with your father’s imprisonment or execution.”

  David Highlander pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and mopped his brow with it. He replaced it and met the gaze of Sherlock Holmes.

  “Of course, you are right, Mr. Holmes,” he said in a firm voice. “As for myself, I can tell you that I went riding yesterday afternoon at about two o’clock and came home shortly after five. Finding the house empty, I returned to the stables to see to my horse. He had come up slightly lame during our ride, and I went back to the house after seven to find my wife there and my father still out. Of course, we had no idea where he was until later that night.”

  “Did anyone ride with you?” asked Holmes.

  “No, I rode alone that day,” he said slowly. “But people must have seen me. I often go riding, as anyone could tell you.”

  “Of course,” said Holmes. “Now, Mrs. Highlander, would you be so kind as to describe your movements.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Ho
lmes, if it will help to set you on the correct path, we can at least eliminate me,” she said haughtily. “I went shopping early in the afternoon. I should say that it was about one o’clock, and I returned well after six. I was in West End shops in which I am well known. There can be no question that I was well away from the area when poor Anne was murdered.”

  At the mention of the killing, I saw both David Highlander and William Benton visibly wince.

  “And you, Mr. Benton,” asked Holmes, switching his attention to the dark, swarthy ex-soldier.

  “I was in Kent for the past two days, sir, looking for work as an estate manager,” he said. “I stayed last evening at the Red Lion. I had dinner at the inn and retired early. Just after seven, I should say. I returned this morning to the awful news.”

  “I see. And had you ever seen your sister wearing the black top she was found in?”

  “I do not believe so, sir. I believe it was part of a mourning dress.”

  “Quite likely,” responded Holmes.

  Holmes was taking no notes, but I was writing down the whereabouts of the group should he need them later. Everyone had told his or her story in a straightforward manner, and I had detected no evasion. If the alibis were not airtight in all cases, it was really no surprise. Most people could not be called upon to account for every minute of a day, but when murder had been done that was another matter. Holmes, after some silent reflection, turned his attention to Samuel Johnson.

  “And what of your movements, Mr. Johnson?” he asked.

  “My movements? But, Mr. Holmes, I came to hire you today,” he said with amusement. “Surely I would not be attempting to prove the innocence of my friend if I were the culprit. What motive would I have for doing such a thing?”

  “As I said before,” replied my friend, “we are putting aside the issue of motive, and that includes why a guilty man might engage my services. For now, I must insist upon a statement of your movements yesterday afternoon.”

  Johnson studied Holmes for some moments. His face was clouded with anger, I thought, but it gradually softened until the man broke into a smile, and then into laughter.

  “Very well, Mr. Holmes,” he said with some mirth. “I am the top man in my field and I am not accustomed to following orders, but then again, you are the top man in your field. Very well. I left the firm at noon yesterday to dine in my home as I always do. I did not return, as I was studying a prospectus of a Brazilian rubber plantation, which I was considering recommending to my clients. I was alone all afternoon and saw no one until I received Harold’s note late last night.”

  “You reside nearby to the Highlander home?”

  “I do, Mr. Holmes. Only a short walk away. Less than one-half mile.”

  “So, in fact, you live quite close to the murder scene as well.”

  Holmes stated it as a fact, rather than a question and Johnson merely nodded in the affirmative.

  “I can assure you all,” Holmes continued, “that if the case against Mr. Harold Highlander falters, your movements will come under the microscope of the Yard. I myself may lack the resources to question every shopkeeper in the West End, the inns of Kent, or those who might have observed Mr. Highlander on his ride, but the police do have the resources. What they lack in detective skills, they make up for in energy. Of this, I assure you. Has each of you told the truth to me? Even the smallest evasion will be looked upon as evidence of guilt, if uncovered later.”

  The three men of the group were nodding in agreement with Holmes’s statement, but I noticed that the lips of Sylvia Highlander were pursed in apparent disapproval. I watched her as her expression passed mere disapproval, and moved into open agitation. Finally, she could contain herself no further and she burst out.

  “David, can you not see that you will not be able to maintain this pretense any longer?” she shrieked.

  Chapter Ten

  David Highlander was in shocked silence for a moment and then replied to his wife in anger.

  “Sylvia, shut up!” he said savagely. “You do not know what you are saying!”

  The husband glared at his wife for some moments, but she would not be cowed and stuck her chin out defiantly.

  “Mrs. Highlander, do you dispute your husband’s accounting of his whereabouts?” asked Holmes in an even tone of voice.

  David Highlander looked petulantly at his wife, but she was nodding her head as Holmes spoke.

  “I do, Mr. Holmes. David has told a stupid lie out of vanity. I have let him maintain this fiction so as not to embarrass him, but your admonition of giving a false alibi has moved me to speak.”

  “What is the true story then, madam?” asked Holmes.

  “David did go riding earlier in the day as he said, but when I returned home he was not in the stables. I found him insensible with drink and asleep in his bedchamber. His compulsion for strong drink has grown in recent years and the state in which I discovered him is one in which I am very familiar. I blame his father for this weakness manifesting itself in David. His father has given him no real authority over the shipping line and he consequently has far too much time on his hands. It has led him astray.”

  The truth of the lady’s statement was read easily on the face of David Highlander. I recalled the words of Samuel Johnson. He had said that David Highlander was a mere figurehead at his father’s firm. I had thought that perhaps the lack of responsibility was congenial to the man, but it would seem that it had weighed heavily upon him, and he had turned to drink for comfort.

  “Will you give us a true accounting now, sir?” asked my friend. “You make my task more difficult with evasions, no matter what the reason.”

  David Highlander shifted uncomfortably in his seat and stared at the floor. With little emotion he replied to Holmes, “The first part of my story was true. I did go riding at two and I returned after five. Father was not about and I felt a chill. I admit that I had several toddies and fell asleep. I was certainly not overcome with drink, though. I am sorry that I held back that part of my story, but whether I was in the stables or in my room seems to matter little. In either case, I was not at the Benton cottage writing a note or killing poor Anne.”

  “David, buck up, my boy,” said Johnson cheerfully. “No one suspects you, but Mr. Holmes is correct. Only the truth will free your father.”

  David Highlander nodded his head absentmindedly as the stockbroker spoke. His wife sat with her lips pursed and her hands on her lap. William Benton was smoking a cigarette and seemed lost in thoughts of his own.

  “Well, let us move on to Mr. Harold Highlander’s movements,” said Holmes. “When he left the Benton cottage I assume he went directly home. Is that true, Mr. Highlander?”

  “What’s that, Mr. Holmes?” asked the young man. “Oh, yes. Father returned home at around eight. He gave us the terrible news. I was in the drawing room by that time and he joined me. We were all in shock, I assure you. I was stunned to hear that Anne had been stabbed to death. Even now it is hard to believe.”

  “Were you all together to hear your father’s tale?”

  “I was in the kitchen attending to dinner with the cook,” said Sylvia Highlander. “I heard the front door open, and I joined David and his father. They were already discussing the matter when I arrived. My father-in-law told us the terrible story and then retired to his study and I saw him no more that night.”

  “Did he give any indication of his plans to confess?”

  “None,” replied David. “He was upset, of course, but he certainly did not intimate that he planned this mad scheme of confessing to the murder.”

  “So after Mr. Highlander retired to his study, he was seen no more by anyone until this morning?” asked Holmes.

  “He was seen, Mr. Holmes,” stated David Highlander.

  “By whom, sir?”

  “James, the butler, told me this morning that Simon Langston came by quite late and met with father in his study.”

  “That horrid little tailor,” exclaimed Sylvia Hi
ghlander in disgust. “Why would he come to see your father?”

  “I cannot say,” replied her husband. “James says that Langston claimed that father had sent for him. At any rate he says that father received the man. They met for nearly half an hour and James saw the man out.”

  “How extraordinary,” I exclaimed. “What can it mean, Holmes?”

  “There are two men that know the answer to that, Doctor,” said he. “I assure you, that the question will be put to both of them. It is not, perhaps, a completely unexpected development.”

  “Then you see some daylight in this matter,” said Johnson.

  “Perhaps,” said Holmes in return, “but much work remains to be done.”

  “Still, your words give me hope,” said the tall stockbroker.

  “You speak for me, Samuel,” cried David Highlander. “For the first time today I dare dream of an escape from this nightmare. Isn’t this marvelous, Sylvia?”

  “Nothing has been accomplished yet, David,” the woman stated bluntly. “Mr. Holmes has given us mere words. I would remind you that things still look very black.”

  David Highlander seemed to physically shrink as his wife spoke.

  “Of course, my dear,” he said in a low voice. He turned to Holmes. “Still, we are in your hands, Mr. Holmes. What else can we tell you?”

  “I believe that I have all that I need at this moment in order to begin,” said Holmes. “I will be in touch with each of you. Good day.”

  At the abrupt dismissal, I saw stunned faces. Samuel Johnson and Sylvia Highlander were both insistent on hearing Holmes’s next step, but he refused to be moved to further conversation. After several minutes of pleading, the room was finally cleared of our guests. Holmes resumed his seat and began puffing on his pipe. I likewise returned to my chair and waited for the great detective’s next move. I had been surprised by Holmes’s decision to halt any further questioning of the guests, but I had learned from long experience to trust the judgment of Sherlock Holmes. After some ten minutes of attention to his pipe, Holmes turned and addressed me.

  “I see that you are in agreement with our client and the lady, Doctor,” he said. “No, no. Do not deny it. I read the disapproval on your face.”