by Amy Thomas
“What things do you mean?”
“I didn’t suppose the rabbit would be returned so quickly,” he said. “Certainly not when we were present. Mrs Phillimore nearly turned green when I touched the thing. I assume you observed her reaction.”
“I did,” I said coolly, trying not to sound as if I had almost discarded the observation as irrelevant. “I didn’t understand it, though,” I added unashamedly.
“No,” said Holmes, “and I believe she thought me equally befuddled, but I was far from it.”
“Of course,” I rejoined archly. “The great Sherlock Holmes is never befuddled by anything.”
“Very few things,” he answered in dead earnest, though I caught a faint twinkle in his bright eyes.
“I see that you’re brimful of curiosity,” he continued. “I’m no less curious about your experiences with the child, but I assume you’ll require some sort of edible nourishment before you’ll be able to manage complicated conversation.”
“Indeed,” I answered, laughing to myself. I wanted to think of some withering reply, but in truth, I was starving, and my brain didn’t wish to cooperate. Thankfully, as we entered the house, it was immediately apparent that Mrs Turner had seen us coming up the hill, for she was setting out a meal of boiled eggs and cold meat.
Holmes did not join me at the table, electing instead to make his way to his chair in the sitting room. Mrs Turner’s annoyance at this amused me, since she was certainly well acquainted with my companion’s tendencies, but I said nothing. I was too busy eating eggs and regaining a sense of mastery over the world.
Once I’d had my fill of luncheon, I joined Holmes, who was reading over pages in his small notebook. “You look better,” he said without looking up.
“You look attentive,” I answered.
“And therein lies one of the chief differences between you and Watson,” Holmes intoned, his gaze still on the page before him. “When he points out the obvious, he simply means to draw attention to it. When you point it out, you mean something else entirely.”
“Exactly,” I answered, “and what I mean to say now is that I’m going to burst if you continue to be cryptic and uncommunicative.”
“Very well,” said the detective, shutting his book and sitting back in the wing chair like a king on his throne, with his fingertips pressed together in their usual position. “I expect you observed that the ground floor of the home bears no evidence of a physical struggle. I can add that the upstairs is similarly without such signs. Of course, Edith Phillimore would have had ample time to try to obscure them if she’d wished, but doing so with absolute completeness is nearly impossible for accomplished criminals, let alone amateurs.” (I sniggered at the way he said “amateurs,” as if crime were analogous to sport.)
“No,” he continued, “I became convinced fairly quickly that Phillimore’s disappearance had been, if not willing, at least effected through means that did not incite a struggle.”
“A chemical anesthetic would have had to be administered and then Phillimore’s inert body would have had to be dragged out of the house, I suppose,” I said, thinking aloud.
“Just so,” said Holmes, “and there was no evidence of that either, on top of the fact that the process would have required the kidnapper coming up to the farmhouse, which would have alerted Mrs Phillimore and anyone else who was around the property at the time.”
“It looks bad for Edith, then,” I mumbled.
“Yes,” said Holmes, “though consideration of her potential involvement presents its own set of problems. If she killed Phillimore in the house, for instance, then she certainly did it in the least messy and most efficient way possible and without leaving any evidence whatsoever, a practically impossible feat, on top of which is the question of what she did with the body.”
“Could she have lured him outside and done it?”
“Possibly, but the property was far from deserted when she departed for the wedding. I intend to question the man Styles to corroborate her timeline of events, but if she was honest about how quickly everything took place, then the realm of possibility narrows.”
“He will corroborate it,” I said, glad that I had something to add. “One of the reasons Edith wasn’t badgered even more by the police was because of his statement. He said that he brought the carriage, saw husband and then wife re-enter the house, and then finally saw Edith drive away very quickly. He wondered where Phillimore was, but said he didn’t think too much of it because Edith often drove herself and the child, and everyone in the village knows that James Phillimore has his moods.”
“It’s an attractive problem,” said Holmes, sounding far from displeased. “Usually, people disappear from public places or open spaces. A house leaves such little room for error, either on the part of the perpetrator of the disappearance or the investigator.”
“Aren’t you going to ask how I learned the man’s story?” I asked.
“Not at all,” said Holmes. “I already know. The two possibilities are that you asked him yourself, or you found out from the police. If the former, you couldn’t be sure that he had told you exactly what he told them. The latter, then. You asked Sergeant Chipping, and he, being enchanted by your face in the usual way, told you everything you wanted to know.”
“How did you deduce that?” I asked, slightly impressed, though not overmuch shocked, knowing Holmes as I did.
“The day I arrived, I saw a sheet of paper in the bin in your cottage. It was the size and shape of the usual contents of a police notebook. It had your name at the top and the beginning of a line of text, and then the writer’s pen obviously ran out, at which time he scratched over the paper to try to force ink to flow but was unsuccessful, leading to the discarding of the page. From that I deduced that a policeman had been in your house and taken some kind of statement from you. I could hardly believe you had given information without taking plenty in return, even if the man was unaware of it.”
“And Chipping? How did you know it was him?”
“The newspaper mentioned an Inspector Graves and a Sergeant Chipping as being connected to the investigation. The inspector would be unlikely to take time to conduct the interview himself, no matter how much your observations might have actually warranted his attention. He would have considered it beneath his notice and sent one of his subordinates instead. It was simply a matter of probability.”
I was reminded of the many times that Dr Watson, after hearing his flatmate’s chain of reasoning, had declared it to be simple after all. It was, and yet it wasn’t. Anyone could see the links; few could chain them together into something that held up. Holmes could.
“True,” I said simply. “But what about the stuffed rabbit?”
“What about the stuffed rabbit?” Holmes echoed. “My perusal of the tree revealed that Eliza and her mother were the only ones who had approached the place where the child fell asleep. In that case, the rabbit had to have been removed by Eliza, her mother, or by someone else, but using a tool that would allow him or her to grasp it without approaching the tree. Such an action would have been pointless; unless the person expected an immediate and detailed investigation, there would be no reason to avoid approaching the tree. The fibres I found in the branches indicated, too, that someone had carefully grasped the rabbit rather than wrenching it with an apparatus, which would almost certainly have left far more residue. I concluded, then, that Edith had removed Charles while her daughter slept.”
I stared at my friend. “Why in the world would she have done such a thing?”
“In time, Miss Adler,” said Holmes, unable to suppress a slight smile. “I will elaborate in an orderly fashion.” The detective leaned back slowly, and I secretly wished I could simply read Dr Watson’s version of the tale and skip to the significant parts - Holmes, of course, found all details significant in some way.
I pursed my lips as Holmes continued. “My conclusions about the probability of the rabbit’s disappearance indicated to me that Mrs Phillimore knew more than she had revealed to anyone. She showed the appropriate signs of genuine worry for her missing spouse, but from then on, my communications with her were tests of sorts. You asked if we might visit the house, and she consented. From that, I inferred that she expected either to be able to keep me from discovering evidence in her home or else that she believed there was none to be found. I also noted that despite the local description of her as exceptionally gregarious, she did not appear so at all when she spoke to me. Could a missing husband account for this discrepancy? Perhaps, but it has been my experience of many years that even the most extreme calamity doesn’t change a person’s demeanor completely, especially after several days have passed.”
“Most people give many allowances of temper to one who is perceived to be in distress or grief, as you and the villagers have done with Edith Phillimore, but her manner was too studiedly depressed for one of normally sanguine disposition, even in a time of difficulty. In other words, I began to believe that a portion of her behaviour was affected. And yet - ” Holmes’s eyes gleamed, and I could see that he was enjoying himself - “she didn’t seem completely disingenuous. Her look and movement betrayed real concern, though she took care to emphasise it purposefully.”
“You were not present for my next test of our hostess, which was to request to examine the upstairs of the home on my own. If she had been concerned with a need to direct my investigations, she would have balked at this, but she was willing, if somewhat short of congenial. Nevertheless, I conducted my examinations in the usual way. Just because someone believes that no evidence is present does not mean that it is actually the case. The police’s inability to turn anything up was equally insignificant in my mind, given the official force’s common inability to discover anything that is out of plain sight.”
“Did you find anything?” I asked, trying to trick the least susceptible man in the world into hurrying his narrative.
“I began in the servants’ rooms,” said Holmes, exactly as if I hadn’t spoken. “I saw nothing out of the ordinary. The family rooms, too, seemed to corroborate the wife’s claim that her husband had taken nothing with him, though it was a difficult assertion to either prove or disprove without an intimate knowledge of the man’s possessions. It was not until I was nearing the conclusion of my investigation of the man’s own room that I found one significant absence: tobacco.”
“How did you know he used it regularly?” I asked, finding it unnecessary at that moment to affirm that I had seen the missing man smoking a pipe on more than one occasion.
“Telltale signs,” he said. “Dusting of the stuff around the room, the lingering odor. Most significantly, the surface of the side table beside Phillimore’s bed revealed a trace of ash next to the faint outline of a commonly-sized tobacco pouch, as if it had been laid there regularly for several years. If nothing whatsoever had been moved in the room, then where was the pouch? Edith’s claim to police and local newspaper was, as you know, unequivocal - Her husband, she said, carried nothing with him when he returned to the house except the clothes he wore.”
I was so interested in Holmes’s tale that the insistent knock at my cottage door seemed unreal at first. I didn’t move until it sounded a second time, the rapping of a fist that obviously had no lack of physical force behind it. I was already at the door when Mrs Turner emerged from the kitchen, and I opened it to find a blue-eyed officer of the law.
“Good afternoon, Sergeant Chipping,” I said automatically, my brain whirring through any possible reasons he might have for coming back to my house in spite of the force’s obvious disdain for my feminine observations. I hoped fervently that his mind was not amorously inclined, as I had previously feared.
“Good afternoon, Miss Adler,” he said, his gaze moving past me to take in Holmes, who had joined me in his noiselessly graceful way.
“This is my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes,” I said by way of an awkward introduction.
“The detective?” Chipping seemed bewildered for a moment, but he shook his large head and went on. “I’ve come about Mrs Phillimore. They’ve found her husband’s body, and she asked us to notify you, Miss Adler. She’s very shaken up, you may imagine.”
“What?” I uttered.
A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make the case more complex.
- The Adventure of the Empty House
Chapter 4: Holmes
The Woman was obviously shocked. Holmes stepped forward and smiled at the young policeman. “Where is the body?” he asked evenly.
“They found him at his farm,” he answered, “in the carriage house.”
“Didn’t the police look there before?”
“Yes, Sir,” said Chipping. “I looked through the place myself. He wasn’t there a week ago, right after he went missing.” Holmes was glad the young man wasn’t tight-lipped.
“Quite right, I’m sure,” he answered. “Miss Adler will follow you to Mrs Phillimore.”
“Inspector Graves sent a wagon for her,” said Chipping, looking over at Irene’s white face quizzically, “if she cares to come along.”
“As long as Mr Holmes accompanies us,” said The Woman suddenly. Holmes almost laughed aloud. She might be momentarily stunned, but Irene Adler never really lost her wits.
“Of course, if you wish,” said Chipping uncertainly, obviously weighing his options and finding the prospect of refusing a distraught lady beyond his sensibilities.
“Thank you,” murmured Irene faintly, and Holmes could tell that she was making the most of her influence over the sergeant.
The detective held Irene’s arm as they followed Chipping outside, trying to assist her in continuing her appearance of frail femininity in case either of them should need its advantage as the afternoon progressed. If the policeman wondered what a famed London detective was doing in Irene Adler’s house, he didn’t betray his curiosity, instead retaining his businesslike manner as the three situated themselves for the short journey to the farm.
***
As Holmes surveyed the Phillimore farmhouse for the second time in one day, he took in an atmosphere that was radically different from the one of the morning. There were people everywhere - workmen, police, and women from the village loitering around the edges, trying to grasp whatever morsels of information they could. It was always the same in villages. Nothing could be concealed, and nearly everyone could be on hand in moments, it seemed. The detective took in every face and the manner of every observer, storing them in his memory in case he should need to recollect them.
Holmes followed Sergeant Chipping through the gawking crowd, noting recognition in the eyes of a few who had seen him on previous visits to Fulworth, though he had never made an effort to enter village life. Irene was more communicative, speaking subdued greetings to those she knew, as befit the circumstances.
Only a small group had been allowed inside the house, and the body had been laid out in the front parlour, Around it stood an elderly man who was obviously a doctor, a policeman Holmes knew to be Inspector Graves, a well-dressed gentleman he did not recognise, a hired man, and the widow, who looked as shocked as anyone Holmes had ever seen. His first task as he stepped into the room was to scrutinise her face, but he could no longer detect any sign that she was exaggerating her feelings. Whatever she might or might not know about her husband’s disappearance, his death had caught her off guard.
“Holmes?” The police inspector looked up and met the detective’s eyes, his face a mask of irritated surprise.
“Good afternoon, Inspector,” said Holmes evenly, concealing his repugnance.
“Sergeant Chipping,” said Graves, ignoring the detective, “I told you to bring Miss Adler,” and no one else was implied by his chilly tone of voic
e.
The unfortunate younger policeman cleared his throat and answered deferentially. “The lady took a turn when she heard the news, Sir. She asked for her friend to come along.”
Inspector Graves looked as if he might devour his subordinate on the spot. “Very well,” he sputtered. “Mr Holmes can help Miss Adler keep Mrs Phillimore company.”
Edith Phillimore looked up as if she had just noticed their entrance and walked over to Irene in a daze. The Woman took her hand. “Let’s go to the kitchen,” she said gently.
“You’ll have to go, too, Mr Holmes,” said Graves in his high-pitched voice. “Only those with official business can stay.”
“Very well,” said Holmes, in no mood to argue. At the present time, he had more interest in seeing the place where the dead man had been found than in seeing the corpse itself. Graves’s preoccupation with the body meant the detective’s chances of examining the carriage house were far higher than if the inspector had been roaming the grounds himself.
Holmes followed Irene, who led Edith to a chair in the kitchen. He smiled at the family’s lone housemaid, whose acquaintance he had made earlier in the day. She seemed to be hiding in the recesses of the small room, trying to fade into the corner. The cook was not in evidence.
Edith stared at her hands for a few seconds before speaking. “Peter Warren found him,” she said softly. “He had gone to fetch one of the wagons, and there James was, seated on top of the carriage with a blanket around him and a bullet through his forehead.” She laughed a short, stabbing laugh, and then she cried. Irene knelt down and put an arm around her. Holmes slipped out quietly, making his way from the house.
When the detective arrived at the carriage house, he found Chipping inside, supervising two policemen who looked young enough to be schoolboys. He nodded to the three officers of the law, but the sergeant looked uncertain. “No one’s supposed to be in here,” he began, clearing his throat.