by Amy Thomas
“From the Winking Tree,” said the child. “We sat down and closed our eyes and went to Wonderland, just like Papa said.”
“Then what happened?” asked Holmes.
“No more Charles,” said the child, with an expression of utmost dramatic woe.
Without further comment, Holmes closed his notebook and rose, taking the child’s hand in his once again. “Take me to the Winking Tree.”
The little girl started toward the door in an instant, pulling Holmes as if he were a dog on a leash. Irene followed, and the detective felt her amusement as if it were a living thing.
***
The Winking Tree, Holmes discovered, was in the very middle of the village, on a green in front of the local parish church. Irene did not follow him and his tiny captor all the way, instead taking a lane toward Cottonwood’s to inform Edith Phillimore of her determined daughter’s whereabouts. As a result, the detective found himself in the dubious position of being alone with an unfamiliar female. Age, he thought, was largely immaterial when it came to the fairer sex. A woman was a woman, as his association with Irene constantly reminded him.
As the two stepped onto the grass in front of the large beech tree, Holmes stopped the little girl with a hand on her shoulder. “Point to where you were when you went to Wonderland,” he said. The child’s tiny finger indicated a spot under the tree, where the grass was flattened, obviously from her seated form.
“Charles was sitting there.” She pointed to a low-hanging branch.
Holmes took out his magnifying glass and scanned the ground. He knew from a conversation he had overheard on the train that the weather had been uncharacteristically dry for several days, and very little moisture had muddied the green or destroyed the imprints of shoes in the soft earth. He made out the child’s prints and another set that were the size and shape of a woman’s slipper. The mother’s, most likely. He saw other footprints, but none of them approached the trunk of the tree. The child did not speak at all while he completed this examination, a fact that did not occur to him until he straightened back up to his full height and remembered her presence. She followed him to the base of the tree and continued to watch silently as he shifted branches and looked for any sign of the missing toy.
After a few moments of careful observation, a flash of white caught Holmes’s eye. Taking a set of tiny metal forceps from his pocket, he captured the strands of white from a twisted branch. The little girl’s face lit up. “That’s from Charles.” The inference was a logical one, but not one the detective would have expected a child to make so readily.
Holmes dropped the threads into a bag and looked for more, though he did not find any. He studied the tree and the ground for a few moments more before taking Eliza’s hand and turning back the way they had come. They found Irene at the edge of the green, joined by a short, plain woman in grey. Eliza broke free of the detective’s grasp and ran to her mother, whose smile transformed her face into something nearly pretty.
A quick study of Edith Phillimore revealed to Holmes that she was genuinely worried about her missing husband, a fact he had desired to ascertain for certain before he made further judgements. Her eyes were rimmed with darkness in her pale face, and her dress showed signs of a lack of care that belied the good quality of the fabric, a lack of care she had not displayed when clothing her child. Even as she embraced Eliza, her gaze scanned the village, as if she thought she might yet see some clue she had missed. After a moment’s observation, the detective was willing to concede that Edith’s concern over James was natural and unaffected. He caught Irene’s eye, and her small look of triumph seemed to indicate that she understood his thoughts.
The Woman introduced her friends to one another, and Edith smiled tensely. “Mr Holmes, thank you for your kindness to my daughter.”
“It was no trouble,” answered the detective. He leaned down to the little girl. “Miss Eliza, I’m sorry I cannot produce Charles immediately, but I hope to be able to do so very soon.” Eliza nodded and stared at him with her large eyes.
“May we come to your house?” Irene asked, ending the awkward silence that followed. “Mr Holmes would like to see it.”
Edith nodded. “I doubt that you will find anything the police missed.” Her voice was terse, almost bitter.
“Perhaps,” said Holmes, “but I have been known to do so in the past.” He thought he heard the slightest hint of a snort come from The Woman, but he said nothing else as he followed the women and child away from the green.
***
Holmes’s first glimpse of Oakhill Farmhouse was unsurprising. The house was a square, two-storey structure with a chimney and two rows of front windows. It was clearly the home of a moderately prosperous family, neither mean nor opulent.
He alighted from the Phillimores’ wagon and offered his assistance to Eliza, who giggled as he swung her to the ground. In the meantime, Irene and Edith alighted with the help of a large, grey-bearded man and joined the detective and the little girl in front of the house while the man led the horse away toward the nearby barn.
“That’s Styles,” said Edith. “He’s been here forever.”
“Mrs Phillimore,” the detective began, “would you mind taking me through the particulars of the day your husband disappeared?”
“Yes, of course,” she answered. “Eliza, show Miss Adler how big the chickens are getting.” Irene understood this to be her cue and submitted to being dragged away by the little girl, a fate Holmes knew she relished, judging by the sanguine expression on her beautiful face.
“It’s probably silly of me, Mr Holmes,” Edith continued, “but I don’t like to speak of it before her. Not until - not until we know something for certain.” Holmes didn’t answer, but he considered how typical it was of parents to underestimate the understanding of children. He would have bet money on the fact that Eliza knew far more than her mother realised.
“Miss Adler has probably told you that the whole village was invited to the Stevenson wedding. I dressed Eliza in the morning while my husband did chores with the men, and he finally readied himself with only moments to spare. Styles brought the carriage around for us, but James said it looked like it might rain and that we’d better have an umbrella with us, so he went back inside. That was all, and then he wasn’t there.”
“Was there no one in the house at the time that your husband returned to it?”
“No, I had given the maid the day off. She was a friend of the bridal household and wanted to help with preparations. The cook left for the wedding just before we did.”
“Where exactly was the carriage brought?”
“The same place where we left the wagon just now.”
“How long was it before you became alarmed?”
“Well, my husband keeps his umbrella in a large carved vase by the door, so I expected him to emerge within a few seconds. When he didn’t, I thought it was strange, but I waited until nearly ten minutes had elapsed. At that point, I was more irritated than worried. I couldn’t imagine what was keeping him. I told Eliza to stay in the carriage, and I walked back into the house, but James wasn’t there.”
“I’d like you to retrace your steps, please, as nearly as you can remember them.”
“I remember them well,” she said. “I’ve had to repeat them to the police many times.”
“I am reasonably convinced that this time will produce better results.”
She half smiled, but her voice was brittle. “It was very kind of you to come here, Mr Holmes. I’m sure you have far more important things to do than look for one missing farmer.”
“Not in the least,” answered the detective. “I came because the case interested me, and I will not leave it unsolved.” Edith looked unconvinced as she led him into the house.
The first thing that caught Holmes’s eye was a large wooden receptacle with two
umbrellas sticking out of it. “His umbrella was never touched,” said Edith.
“Interesting,” said Holmes. He did not utter them aloud, but his brain immediately catalogued the available options: either Phillimore had never intended to fetch the umbrella at all, or whatever had happened to him had occurred before he had a chance to pick it up. The third option, that Phillimore or someone else had picked it up and then replaced it, he considered possible but unlikely.
Edith led him through to a parlour with a piano, a sofa, and a few hard-looking chairs. There were no signs of a struggle, but Holmes wished devoutly that he had been on hand more quickly, before the police had obliterated most of the potential evidence. Still, even the regular force was usually competent enough to see the signs of a fight, and the woman of the house seemed too intelligent to have missed them herself.
“May I see the upstairs, please?” he asked, after an extensive perusal of the room. “You may leave me to my own devices.” Holmes uttered the phrase in a tone that left no doubt of his desire to be left alone to complete his observations. Edith nodded once and left the room. The two weeks since her husband’s disappearance had apparently acclimated her to the invasion of her home by unfamiliar and unwanted guests, though the set of her shoulders indicated that she still felt slight displeasure at the intrusion.
Holmes made his way up the modest staircase, noting the presence of obligatory portraits of stern-looking relatives, and found himself in a long hallway with rooms on either side. He began at one end, entering a room that obviously belonged to a servant. Its furnishings were neat but meagre, and no personal objects were in sight other than a small, cheap mirror with a cracked silver handle. He quickly searched the small, rough-hewn wardrobe before leaving the room and proceeding down the hall.
Two other similar rooms completed the accommodations of the live-in staff, and Holmes determined that, depending on the conclusions of his findings in the house, he might also contrive ways to enter the homes of the farm hands and their wives to see if their occupants might be inclined to tell tales of what they knew.
The detective set his steps toward the family rooms, ready to uncover any detail the police had missed. Nearly two weeks was a long time - for a wife to hide whatever she did not wish to be seen, for the careless tread of policemen to obscure delicate clues, or for a resourceful criminal to destroy evidence. But Holmes knew himself, and he was equal to the task.
Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner.
- The Sign of Four
Chapter 3: Irene
The chickens looked exactly as they had every time I had submitted to having them shown to me. More than anything, my acquaintance with Eliza Phillimore had reminded me of the astonishing, stubborn love of repetition that exists in childhood, until adulthood robs us of the wonder of sameness.
I knelt down obediently beside the little girl and watched as the largest chicken, which was named Mrs Merriwether after the family’s rotund cook, pecked mercilessly at the tiny rooster, who was known as Rogers. I watched the child, too, wondering how much she knew or could possibly suspect about her father’s disappearance. Her mother never spoke of it to her, but I wondered if that was the best course of action, given that he might never return.
Presently, Eliza’s seven-year-old mind tired of chickens, and she dragged me toward the large, weather-beaten barn, which was as grey as her eyes. “Miss Adler,” she said, pulling my hand as if it were a toy, “is Mr Holmes nice?”
A host of amusing thoughts crowded into my mind, but I answered honestly, “Mr Holmes is interesting, and that’s even better.” I bent down to adjust my shoe and hide the laugh that I couldn’t keep from coming. Eliza stopped, too, and fingered a blade of green grass as if it were the most exquisite lace.
I had only been inside the barn once, a year before, when Eliza had insisted on showing me a newly-born foal, but it had not changed since I had seen it. The same smell of manure assaulted my nose, and the same men, busily at work, stopped just long enough to nod in my direction. I felt the crunch of hay under my feet and heard the sounds of horses in the yard beyond. My eyes were fascinated by a building that was immense, but at the same time filled with all manner of nooks and crannies and tiny spaces. I wondered how many of them had been the recipients of Eliza’s tiny body and what she might have seen and heard while resident in them.
I noticed with interest that Peter Warren, known locally for his bitter conflict with Phillimore, was in one corner of the barn - off to himself, polishing a leather instrument that I did not recognise. Holmes would want to speak to him; of that I was sure. For myself, I couldn’t help thinking that the man’s severe, spare appearance did not indicate a charitable temperament, though that did not necessarily indicate murderous intent.
Eliza didn’t utter a word until she had brought me through the barn and into the smaller carriage house, which was connected by a side door and opened onto the yard. It was dark and quiet, and once we had passed into it, we found ourselves alone. “This is Eliza’s place,” said my companion, pointing to a tiny, claustrophobic corner behind the family’s one ancient carriage. It held a small, tattered blanket spread out over straw, a tin of biscuits, a yellowed lace shawl, and a picture book. Eliza sat down, and I crouched beside her, wondering why she had chosen to let me into her tiny world. She arranged a straw throne for me, and I stretched out my legs and leaned against the structure’s ancient back wall, wondering what discoveries Holmes might be making inside the house.
“Charles!”
In the dark, serene atmosphere of the carriage house, the child’s shocked screech nearly made me let out an answering scream, but I recovered myself and looked over to find her clutching a grimy, stuffed white rabbit to her chest.
“Where did you find him?” I asked, slightly perplexed. I knew Holmes would have found it unforgiveable, but I had allowed myself to drift off and miss the moment of discovery.
“He was under here,” she said, lifting up the edge of her tiny blanket.
“Ah, you must have forgotten and left him here,” I said, in the exact knowing way that had irritated me when adults had used it during my own childhood.
“No!” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “I looked.” I stared at her a moment, trying to evaluate the truth of what she was saying. If she were right, then things had certainly taken a peculiar turn. I resolved to let Holmes decide.
“Let’s go back to the house and show Mummy,” I said brightly, hoping to lure the child without a fight. In her usual fashion, she took my hand wordlessly and began to pull me back toward the house, clasping the rabbit in her other hand. I considered that if the toy were actual evidence, then Holmes would probably fault the fact that I had not seized it, but I didn’t relish trying to pry the prodigal rabbit from Eliza’s eager clutches.
The quick trot to the house gave me enough time to consider the implications of a disappearing stuffed rabbit. I tried to think like Holmes. How small did a coincidence have to be before it was allowable? Was a child’s mysteriously-appearing toy insignificant enough to be unrelated to the disappearance of her father? I did not have Holmes’s knack for weaving together the seemingly unrelated strains of a problem. I could understand events as they occurred, but I could not always perceive their interconnectedness.
Eliza and I found her mother in the farmhouse kitchen, joining the cook in the preparation of lunch. She looked up in surprise as we entered, though her face was not unpleasant. I would not have inserted myself unceremoniously into the kitchen of every home in Fulworth, but the Phillimores had never kept a formal household.
“Mummy, I’ve found Charles!” burst immediately from Eliza’s throat, sparing me from having to explain the situation. In excited tones, she explained the circumstances of the rabbit’s sudden reappearance, all the while cuddling it in irrepressible joy. I
watched Edith carefully, thinking Holmes would want me to catalogue her reaction as closely as I could.
She seemed genuinely surprised, and after a moment, she looked up and met my gaze solidly. “I can attest that she looked there before. We searched it together right after she lost him.” I nodded, wondering what Holmes would make of it.
I didn’t have long to ponder the question, because the detective soon appeared with a wide-eyed young housemaid in tow. “The tone of voices I heard across the house indicates that something of import has occurred,” he said mildly, smiling benignly but in a way that suggested to me his annoyance at having missed something.
“Charles has reappeared,” I intoned softly. Holmes’s eyes flashed triumph for a split second before he resumed his air of harmless pleasantry.
“May I see Charles, please?” he asked, bending down to Eliza’s level. I thought the child might be reluctant to give up her recently-regained treasure, but her nascent fondness for my angular friend won out, and she handed the rabbit to him readily. Her mother was just behind her, and I almost thought I saw her flinch, but the impression made no sense to me at the time, so I pushed it aside.
***
Holmes and I returned to my cottage in silence. I knew him well enough to tell that he was deep in thought, and I had no desire to awaken his irritation by disturbing him, though I dearly desired to know what he had made of the recent events.
As we approached the front door, he seemed to remember my existence and looked down at me with a smile - his genuine one, not the falsely benign one of the morning. “I didn’t think things would move so quickly,” he mused contentedly, as if he were commenting on the weather. I resisted the urge to pinch him.