The Detective, The Woman and the Winking Tree

by Amy Thomas

  “I hope you’ve brought the ingredients for one of your excellent pork pies,” said Holmes, earning the ghost of a smile at the corners of the housekeeper’s mouth. I laughed to myself. He knew very well that she always cooked pork pies on Monday evening. Dr Watson was particularly fond of them, and I found myself hoping that Miss Willow, whoever she might be, would accommodate him in that and other ways. I hated to think of such a kind man having any advantage taken of him.

  Mrs Turner disappeared into the kitchen, a domain I was not allowed to enter when she chose to occupy it. I had tried to alter this inexorable rule a few times to offer help, but the frigid stare that greeted me had caused my resolve to evaporate. I didn’t mind the arrangement. Truth be told, I had never been fond of domestic work. Some of the farm wives undoubtedly thought my retention of a housekeeper absurdly frivolous, since many households in the Fulworth area could afford little household help, even those with establishments much larger than mine.

  I relaxed into the sofa cushions and heard the words “go on” issue forth from the environs of Holmes’s chair, as if nothing had interrupted my story.

  “I, of course, looked to the others in Phillimore’s household as well. He has the managing of a moderately-sized farm that has been in his family for several generations. He inherited it upon his father’s death and is assisted by a man named Peter Warren, with whom he has a complicated association.”

  Holmes opened his eyes briefly. “Explain.”

  “I have been told that until his death ten years ago, Warren’s father had more or less the same position with Phillimore’s father that the son currently occupies. As a result, James and Peter grew up together, attended school together in the village, and had the run of the farm. They were friends.”

  “David and Jonathan,” murmured Holmes.

  “More like Jacob and Esau,” I retorted. “According to village gossip, the break in the friendship happened five years ago, when Phillimore’s father died. The claim is that Warren had felt himself a part of the family for so long, especially since his own father’s passing, that he had expected to be treated differently than a hired man, more as a sort of partner. Phillimore apparently did not agree and took the full birthright for himself, while offering a continued position to his friend.”

  “I have not spoken to Warren about his decision to stay at the farm, but the general consensus is that he couldn’t bear to leave a place with so many ties and old memories. Everyone in the village knows about the disagreement, and sentiment is extremely divided. The two men rarely speak about anything other than the management of the property, though they are constantly in close proximity.”

  “Would Warren have anything to gain by Phillimore’s death?”

  “That I do not know. It seems unlikely, but I haven’t yet been able to extract information about a will from anyone, since no body is in evidence.”

  “It’s enough to begin with,” said Holmes.

  ***

  That evening, we dined on Mrs Turner’s succulent pork pies, and I surmised from Holmes’s healthy appetite that his mind was not yet entirely consumed by the case. Indeed not, for he talked of Paganini, and I happily joined in, enjoying the rare treat of musical discourse. After the conclusion of the meal, Holmes freed his violin from its encasing prison, caressing the smooth contours in the wood like an enchanted lover before playing a piece I had never heard before that he called Meditation, from a new opera by Massenet. It was exquisite.

  I enjoyed watching Holmes play, as the music kidnapped the mind of the detective and made it her own. It wasn’t as if he became someone else - to say so would be ridiculously limiting. No, it was as if all of the dreamy abstraction and mystery that lived behind his eyes became suddenly and starkly and beautifully evident on his face and through his fingers. Mrs Turner cried. I did not, but I understood. Once the piece was complete, Holmes played a cheerful quartet of popular beer hall dance melodies, humorously endowing them with all the gravity of a funeral dirge. Mrs Turner and I both laughed without concern for dignity, and I thought Holmes was pleased, though he did not break his comically serious character.

  The housekeeper went to bed as soon as Holmes had finished, but I sat up with him and watched as his eyes drifted toward my piano in the corner. I thought perhaps he wished me to play, but I did not volunteer to do so. We sat silently for a very long time, neither of us seeking sleep or wishing to disturb the tranquil atmosphere.

  “Holmes,” I said after a while, “You have a performer’s flair for the dramatic when you choose the juxtaposition of your violin performances. You had us crying and laughing at will.”

  “Yes,” he said, sounding less cross than he had since his arrival, “Watson has often commented that I might have been an actor.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” I answered, looking him full in the face. “An actor parrots the lines of the playwright. When you perform, Holmes, you choose your own lines. Given your success, I’m very glad you’re not a confidence man by trade.”

  Holmes laughed, suddenly and drily. “You are hardly less skilled in the art of manipulation. You have already succeeded in luring me here and elevating my mood. Good night, Miss Adler.”

  I watched the tall form leave the room and smiled to myself. Any boredom my village routine might have engendered was no longer a concern. Sherlock Holmes’s presence was anything but monotonous, especially when he had a case.

  Safely tucked into my own bed, underneath a quilt that had been given to me by Miss Rose from the village after I had helped her end an unfortunate liaison with a carpenter, I realised that I was more glad than sorry that Holmes had chosen to view my letter as a summons. I had not expected him, knowing that if he had an engrossing case in London, he would not be likely to put it aside for a village concern; however, I was not entirely surprised, either. No one can command Holmes when he is set against something, but he’s equally resolute when he’s interested in a problem. I had chosen my written words carefully, revealing enough to tantalise but also concealing much. I had attempted to manipulate him, purely and simply. He had seen through me, of course, but that had not stopped him from taking the bait. I had offered him a pretty problem, and he had thanked me by consenting to play my game, at least for the moment. I fell asleep contented.

  ***

  The morning dawned bright, as mornings tend to do in Sussex and elsewhere. I stared at the white ceiling of my bedroom for a moment before remembering my guest in the spare room. I was glad Holmes had come, both for the sake of the investigation and for my own sake. I was happy in Fulworth, ridiculously so, but occasionally I craved repartee with someone whose experience extended beyond the Downs, and the village afforded few such individuals. I had long since resigned myself to the fact that a certain sort of local man invariably underestimated me because of my gender, and plenty of women did as well. This could, at times, be a decided advantage if I found myself needing to extract information or achieve particular outcomes, but I preferred meeting people on an equal footing, without subterfuge if it could be avoided. Living near the coast was glorious, but sometimes I required more than invigorating scenery.

  Holmes’s presence was welcome, for he treated me as his experiences with me warranted. Sometimes a pretty face - not, I admit, usually a cause for complaint - could be troublesomely distracting to others. Holmes didn’t even seem to see it. No, that’s not quite right. He observed my face and catalogued it as part of me, the way he assimilated Dr Watson’s moustache or Mrs Hudson’s jet black hair. He observed, but what he observed did not prejudice him. These thoughts accompanied me as I readied myself for the day, feeling a certain air of excitement as I completed my toilette and joined Holmes at the breakfast table.

  “Good morning,” he said, taking a sip of coffee but not touching the vast spread Mrs Turner had provided. The long fingers of his right hand held the village’s attempt at
a newspaper. It was a poorly-written thing, to be sure, but certainly revelatory of local viewpoints. I often laughed at its amateurish writing style, but as a mirror reflecting popular opinion, it was without local equal.

  I created what I considered stunningly beautiful artwork on my plate, consisting of liberal quantities of toast, bacon, sausage, and eggs before deigning to reply to my companion with more than a nod.

  “The paper’s still full of the ‘Phillimore Tragedy,’ as they’re calling it,” I observed. “It’s been nearly two weeks, and without evidence of the man, people are naturally thinking of foul play.”

  “No one supposes him to have fled?” Holmes raised one eyebrow slightly.

  “It’s a hard theory to find any motive for,” I admitted, “even for me. Of course, he might have been in some sort of trouble no one knew about. That seems to be the most likely cause, though I’d have thought the police might have come up with something by now if it was at all plausible. He was an enigmatic man, but one who displayed thorough devotion to his family and his duty.”

  Holmes nodded. “I don’t share your hopeful view of the official police’s capabilities, but I don’t discredit your observations or conclusions. Still, such outward correctness does not always tend where it seems.”

  “True,” I agreed. “At first, the police were enthusiastic about the idea of an escape plot, but no way was discovered for how it might have been done, and no evidence was found that he used a train or any other transportation. Edith, too, insists that he could not have fled in front of her eyes.”

  “And if she’s lying?”

  “Then she’s exceptionally skilled.”

  “I would like to meet her,” said Holmes, swirling the last dregs of coffee in the bottom of his cup as Mrs Turner glided up behind him to refill it.

  “If you intend to view the scene of the disappearance, you will hardly be able to escape her,” I replied, looking down and giving my full attention to my breakfast.

  As he spoke the door opened and a young lady entered the room.

  - The Adventure of the Copper Beeches

  Chapter 2: Holmes

  The detective finished his coffee in silence as his brain wove together the disparate threads of the Phillimore case into some semblance of a coherent whole. It was by no means a complete whole as of yet, but he sought something that would suggest lines of enquiry.

  He was unconvinced that Phillimore was deceased. In fact, he would have been highly unsurprised to learn that the man was in London, glad to have left duty and family behind. Plenty of other men had done the same. He intended, if he was unable to ascertain the man’s location himself, to enlist his brother’s help. The city was a vast beehive, filled with places to hide and disappear, but Mycroft Holmes had ways of finding out people’s whereabouts.

  At the same time, he could not fail to acknowledge the puzzle of the case - the seemingly impossible way it had all been done. Years of dissecting crimes and criminals had taught him that crime of any sort was a nearly impossible thing to conceal in a village as small as Fulworth. Someone was sure to know something, and the police, however incompetent, invariably came up with some sort of theory. The fact that no one whatsoever had come forward and that the police had come up with nothing certainly suggested a case that had features of interest beyond the ordinary. Someone wasn’t talking, someone who knew facts that were relevant to the case.

  Holmes’s last sip was interrupted by a nearly-imperceptible tapping on the cottage door. Neither of the two ladies heard it, for Mrs Turner was loudly washing dishes, and Irene had gone to her beehives. The detective waited a long moment and went to the door himself, a highly unusual practise, but he wanted to see the person who had chosen to announce his or her arrival in such a timid sort of way.

  He opened to door to nothing - until his eyes traveled down to take in the small body of a little girl. She was of average height for a seven-year-old, with pin-straight brown hair and large grey eyes, which widened upon seeing such a large and imposing stranger. Any moment, she would bolt.

  “Hello, Love, where’s Mummy?” said a voice behind the child, and The Woman materialised from the direction of the hives, her chestnut hair askew and a smile on her face. She took the child’s hand.

  “Cottonwood’s,” answered the voice of the tiny person, naming a shop in the village.

  “This is Mr Holmes, Eliza. He’s come to visit.” Irene indicated the detective with a tilt of her head.

  “Hello, Mr Holmes,” said the little girl seriously, taking in the stranger’s dark clothing and sharp features. Holmes smiled a smile he usually reserved for the youngest members of the Baker Street Irregulars, the children he employed to prowl the London streets in search of helpful information. He was aware of his propensity to appear forbidding, a quality for which he had often been grateful, but it was one which was not universally advantageous.

  “Hello, Eliza,” he answered, bowing politely and extending his hand, as he would have done in the presence of royalty. He caught Irene’s smile in his peripheral vision.

  “You’re very pointy,” said the child.

  “A solid observation,” answered Holmes, nodding respectfully. “You have the makings of a detective.”

  “And you have the makings of someone far sillier than I had supposed,” said Irene, grinning as she ushered the girl inside and passed her to Mrs Turner, who smiled indulgently. He followed the women inside, wondering what information he might be able to gain from the missing man’s daughter.

  “I’ve already questioned her,” said Irene in a low voice at his elbow, as if she had read his mind. “She’s clever, but she didn’t see anything.”

  “Perhaps,” answered the detective, “but I would still like to speak with her.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to anyway. She was intrigued by you - and your angles.” The Woman smirked saucily.

  “I have angles enough,” Holmes mused, taking his usual seat in the wing chair.

  Eliza emerged from the kitchen within ten minutes, wearing traces of berry pie on her face. She stopped in the doorway when she saw Holmes and stared at him intently. The detective stared back with no less frankness. “Are you Miss Adler’s friend?” asked the little girl after a long while.

  “Yes,” said Holmes with a wry smile. “Miss Adler and I have known each other for a long time.”

  “Do you live in London?”

  “Yes, on a street called Baker.”

  “Is it very noisy?”

  Holmes leaned forward slightly with his elbows on his knees and peered at Eliza from under his dark brows. “In the daytime, the air is filled with the noise of hansom cabs passing by and people selling flowers and fruit and sweets of all kinds. In the night, the darkness is broken by the sounds of horses’ hooves and people yelling from too far away to understand what they say.” By the time he had reached the end of this dramatically-delivered speech, he had lowered his voice to a near-whisper, and the little girl’s eyes were wide open with amazement. He sat back in his chair, satisfied that he had effectively silenced her for the time being.

  “Is my Papa there?” The sound of Eliza’s voice disrupted the detective’s complacency, and at the conclusion of her question, he looked at her with no small amount of astonishment.

  “Go let Mrs Turner wash your face, and then we’ll talk about it,” Irene put in, and Holmes nodded to her gratefully as the little girl left the room. Once Eliza was gone, The Woman left her seat on the sofa and perched on the arm of Holmes’s chair. She spoke quickly in a near-whisper. “Right after the disappearance, her mother told her that her father had gone to London and would return. Unfortunately, one of the stupider policemen assigned to the case assumed she was too young to understand and said something that made her think he was never coming back. Her mother told her it was a lie, but she’s been asking about it in
cessantly ever since.”

  Holmes answered in a rapid whisper, “Normally I would advocate telling the unvarnished truth, but since the object of the obfuscation is a seven-year-old child, I can’t fault the mother’s reasoning. She may yet have something useful to add, though. She’s certainly clever enough to have observed something significant.”

  “Just don’t frighten her,” Irene hissed into his ear before bolting back to the sofa as the child reappeared.

  Holmes held out a hand to the little girl, and she came and stood in front of his chair. He took her tiny right hand in both of his and addressed her honestly. “I haven’t seen your Papa, but I will work very hard to find him.”

  “Mr Holmes is good at finding things,” said Irene.

  Suddenly, the little girl became exceedingly animated. “Can you find Charles?”

  “If I am to find him, you must tell me who he is,” Holmes answered, as seriously as before. He stole a glance at The Woman, who simply nodded and remained silent.

  “Charles,” said Eliza, “is a rabbit.” She looked as if anyone who was unaware of this obvious fact must be an imbecile of the highest order.

  “Stuffed rabbit,” Irene contributed.

  Holmes allowed himself a moment to let the full absurdity of the situation pass through his consciousness, but he did not mind the humorous turn of events. The child’s trust might end up proving useful, and he knew that direct interrogation was far from desirable where young children were concerned. He would allow things to unfold naturally.

  Taking his small, black notebook from his pocket, Holmes began. “When did you last see Charles?”

  “Last week, in Wonderland,” Eliza promptly answered, exactly, Holmes thought, as if she had said “Brompton.”

  “How did he arrive in Wonderland?” Holmes asked, infusing all the patience he could muster into his tone. He glanced over at Irene, who appeared surprised and gratified. If The Woman thought he was unequal to managing the little girl, he would certainly prove her wrong. Small children were nothing to Scotland Yard, and sometimes, there wasn’t a great deal of difference between Inspector Lestrade and a seven-year-old child.