The Detective, The Woman and the Winking Tree

by Amy Thomas

  “I hope you’re prepared,” I rejoined, handing him a flowered teacup. I had purposefully selected the most hideously embellished one I owned in hopes of annoying him. It was, unaccountably, Mrs Turner’s favourite.

  “I believe,” said Holmes after a few sips of the fragrant Darjeeling, “that we were finishing the discussion of the missing tobacco pouch.”

  “Yes,” I said, casting my mind back.

  “You will have realised, Irene, that the intentional removal of the man’s tobacco pouch would have been a very strange move for a murderer to make. If the killer had wished to make it look like Phillimore had left of his own volition, then taking more than a tobacco pouch would have been the logical action. Edith, too, struck me as far too intelligent to have failed to notice the object’s absence if she wasn’t expecting it. That, coupled with the odd incident of the rabbit, began to suggest a chain of events to me.”

  “I don’t suppose you intend to reveal it yet,” I said, resigned to the wait.

  “One must not guess, Miss Adler,” he said, “and I was at the time unsure.”

  “Very well,” I groused, not really irritated.

  “The timing of the rabbit’s sudden appearance, as I said before, surprised me, though I had expected it to be returned at some juncture. The material point is how much Edith Phillimore did not want me to look at it. I had already observed a certain amount of resistance in her to my taking the case at all. She purported to be pleased, but her demeanor told a different tale. Strange behaviour from a woman who was supposedly longing for her husband’s return and had no particular reason to dislike me.”

  “At the house, too, she did not seem overly pleased with the idea of me poking about upstairs without her to guide me, though she took pains to act as if she didn’t mind. Again, a peculiar way of behaving considering that the police have been over the place many times without uncovering anything. I could only attribute it to the fact that she had more faith in my powers of discovery than in the police’s.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Very flattering. Do you think she killed him, then?”

  “Certainly not,” said Holmes. “All of this points to her not being the murderer.”

  “I don’t quite follow,” I admitted.

  “Consider,” said Holmes. “We have evidence that a missing man took his tobacco pouch with him when he disappeared, the one thing he could not be without because of his habit. His wife says nothing of this to the police, who are too focused on the presence of the man’s clothing and umbrella to notice where something as small as a tobacco pouch ought to be. At the same time, a little girl’s white rabbit goes missing and reappears without an explanation. No doubt, had we not been present, the mother would have passed it off as a child’s forgetfulness. Finally, we have Edith Phillimore’s obvious shock at her husband’s death.”

  “Yes,” I murmured. “She was even more surprised than I would have expected. The duration of the time that James has been missing would have suggested a very real possibility of foul play to most people.”

  “Just so,” said Holmes with satisfaction. “Therein is the key. As strange as it is to contemplate, the evidence points to Edith knowing where her husband was all along, or at least being aware that he intended to leave. His death, though, was apparently not part of the plan, whatever it might have been.”

  “Isn’t that unbearably coincidental?” I asked.

  “I don’t care about coincidence if it’s the only possibility,” said Holmes. “The reason for the disappearance will very likely provide at least a beginning for the investigation of the murder, and will probably do much more than that.”

  “Do you intend to tell the police?” I asked.

  “Tell them what?” asked Holmes, smiling. “That I suspect that the child’s white rabbit was some sort of signal between husband and wife? That a little tobacco dust indicates that Edith Phillimore has been successfully deceiving them the entire time? I would hardly be believed, and anyway, I have no desire to involve Inspector Graves more than necessary.”

  “What is your prior acquaintance with him?” I asked, unable to restrain my curiosity.

  “Unfortunately, he was a protégé of Inspector Lestrade. He took that venerable gentleman’s side in a disagreement during a case several years ago, and his dislike was hardened by the fact that I turned out to be correct.”

  “Naturally,” I rejoined archly.

  “I had no idea he’d ended up in the country, but I see that his abilities haven’t eclipsed his teacher’s.”

  “At least Chipping is agreeable,” I put in.

  “Very,” said Holmes, and I suspected that he was teasing me.

  “What do you plan to do now?” I asked, thinking I could predict his answer.

  “I’ll tell Eliza in the morning, and then I think we must question her mother. It may be the only hope for finding the murderer, and the longer the trail has to go cold, the more difficult our task will be.”

  “I agree,” I answered. “And Holmes - ” I added as I rose to leave the room, “are you sure you want to tell Eliza yourself?”

  “I am,” answered my friend, showing no sign of going to bed.

  “Why?”

  Holmes stared at nothing. “Perhaps because she reminds me of Mycroft.”

  “What?” I stopped halfway down the hall and turned back to face him.

  “Oh yes,” he answered, “Mycroft was a very fanciful child.” My last look at him before I went to bed found him smiling to himself.

  She was fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentleness and courtesy in his dealings with women.

  - The Adventure of the Dying Detective

  Chapter 6: Holmes

  Holmes didn’t sleep, a usual occurrence when he was mulling over a case. This night, however, his mind was partially occupied by the little girl sleeping in the guest room next to his, the child with a mind so much like his older brother’s. That was what unsettled him. Mycroft, even at Eliza’s age, would have seen something. The question was how to tease information out of the mind of a seven-year-old to whom flower petals were as important as human beings.

  At present, though, his task was to tell her that her father wasn’t coming back. The detective didn’t think about his childhood often, but now he let himself remember the day of his mother’s death. He had been barely old enough to speak in full sentences, and Mycroft hadn’t been much older than Eliza was. Strangely, he could hardly remember his own response, but he could recall with absolute clarity the horror on his brother’s face when the second housemaid had told them. He had spent years trying to wish that moment away, not to bring his mother back, but to erase the look of helpless pain on Mycroft’s face. Eliza was not his brother, but she had a similar mind, and he would do his best.

  ***

  Eliza awoke early in the morning, and Mrs Turner dressed her for a walk outside, as Holmes had requested. He felt very old when he saw her emerge from the guest room with Charles tucked under her arm. She wasn’t smiling. “Good morning, Miss Eliza,” he said. She simply nodded.

  The detective took the child’s hand and led her out of the cottage and down the hill toward the village. The morning wind was chilly, and he bent down to make sure her coat was secured around her. She stared at him before touching his nose with her finger, ostensibly to see if it felt as pointy as it looked. “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “To the Winking Tree,” said Holmes, and he felt his hand suddenly tugged forward by the excited little girl. Hardly anyone was about and none of the shops were open at the early hour, for which Holmes was grateful. He listened to the crunch of leaves under his feet and felt the brisk air sting his cheek, all the while hoping he was not a fool for endeavoring to tell the child himself.

  When they reached the large beech tree, Eliza sat down underneath it immediately, an
d Holmes joined her. She looked surprised, but he took his magnifying glass out of his coat pocket and gave it to her. She spent a happy ten minutes looking at everything in sight under the glass. Finally, Holmes held out his hand and took it back. “Eliza,” he said, “do you know where your father is?”

  “At home,” she said promptly. With effort, Holmes did not show his surprise.

  “When did you last see him?”

  “I went to put Charles in bed for a nap, and Papa was on the carriage. He was sleeping, too. He didn’t wake up.”

  “What did you do then?” asked Holmes evenly.

  “I went and told Mummy, and she sent me away with Mrs Merriwether.” Holmes leaned against the tree trunk, thinking.

  “Eliza, your father wasn’t asleep.” The little girl turned toward the detective and looked at him with wide eyes.

  “Was he dead?” Holmes nodded wordlessly. “My cat Tiger died,” she continued, “so Papa bought Charles for me because he said Charles couldn’t die.”

  “That’s right,” said Holmes, trying to ascertain where her mind was headed.

  “When will Papa come back?”

  “He’s not coming back,” said Holmes, feeling something thick in his chest and beginning to wish he hadn’t undertaken his current task.

  “Oh,” said Eliza. “Is he still in Wonderland?”

  Holmes thought about this for a moment before replying. “You can always keep him in Wonderland in your mind.”

  Eliza seemed satisfied with this, and she fell silent. The detective didn’t try to rush her. After a while, she crept close and buried her face in his coat. He did not move to touch her, and she did not cry.

  A long time later, the little girl stood up. “I’m hungry.”

  “Me too,” said Holmes, and he realised that he was.

  ***

  Breakfast was an odd affair, with Eliza showing no signs of her newfound knowledge except an unusually subdued demeanor and The Woman giving Holmes meaningful glances every few moments that betrayed her insatiable curiosity about what had transpired. Mercifully, Mrs Turner took Eliza away to help her fold laundry as soon as breakfast was over, which gave ample opportunity for the detective to join Irene in the sitting room and submit to her questioning.

  “Well?” she hissed, keeping her voice low so as not to carry to the back of the cottage where Mrs Turner and Eliza were working.

  “The task is complete,” said Holmes simply, knowing he wouldn’t get off so easily.

  “How did she take it?”

  “A seven-year-old child, however intelligent, can hardly be expected to fully understand the finality of death, but the material point is that she took it even better than I expected on account of already having a subconscious inkling that it was true.”

  “What in the world do you mean?” asked Irene, staring at the detective as if he’d turned purple.

  “She found the body,” he replied succinctly, watching his companion’s face drain of colour as the sense of what he’d said reached her mind. “Her brain appears to have interpreted her father’s lack of response as sleep, but I believe she knew something more serious had happened.”

  “Didn’t she tell anyone?”

  “Unless she’s lying, which I can’t quite credit, she told her mother, who bundled her off with the cook.”

  “And then what?”

  “I’m not clairvoyant, Miss Adler, but it appears that Edith waited for someone to find the body accidentally. The other possibility is that she told Warren what had happened and arranged for him to find it, but after speaking to him, I don’t believe so.”

  “You spoke to him?”

  “He encountered me at the house yesterday and told me the story of finding the body purely by chance, which I believe is true. There is simply no indication that any of his actions would have benefitted him if he was the actual killer.”

  “I see. Are you confident that we may eliminate him as a potential suspect?”

  “Nearly so. If things continue in the same way they’re going now, I believe we’ll find ourselves looking in another direction entirely.”

  “I suppose we’ll have to question Edith now, though I confess I’m not looking forward to it.”

  “I, however, am,” said Holmes, in the midst of lighting his pipe. “Her feelings notwithstanding, I’m ready to hear the truth about what she knows and am not inhibited by bonds of friendship. Perhaps you might prefer to miss the interview. I’d be happy to conduct it alone.”

  Irene was silent for a moment, as if she was considering the offer. “Very well,” she finally said, “but I’ll expect a full rendition of events.” Holmes was slightly surprised at her easy acceptance, but he said nothing.

  Mrs Turner brought Eliza back into the room then, and Holmes held out his hand. “Miss Eliza, would you like to go home?”

  The little girl looked from the housekeeper to The Woman as if she was afraid of answering incorrectly. “I want to see Mummy,” she said finally.

  “And you shall,” answered the detective, letting a smile reach the corners of his bright eyes.

  ***

  Eliza was nearly silent on the ride to the farm, her tiny hands twisted into her green frock. Holmes didn’t disturb her. He had been a quiet child himself, and he saw no reason to interrupt the little girl’s process of thought. Children, he believed, were capable of far more logic and understanding than adults usually admitted.

  Finally, when the farmhouse was nearly in sight, he heard the child’s quiet voice. “If papa is dead, I won’t see him any more.” The assertion was decidedly a statement rather than a question. “Will they put him in the ground?”

  “Yes,” answered Holmes.

  Eliza didn’t speak again until they reached the house and Holmes swung her down from the wagon. “You are a nice, pointy man,” she said seriously. “I like you.”

  “The impression is - mutual,” said Holmes, caught off his guard. No matter how well he thought he understood the fairer sex, its members still had an almost infinite ability to surprise him.

  He followed the child into the servants’ entrance, where he found the cook in conversation with the housemaid. Mrs Merriwether gave him a frosty look. “Mrs Phillimore was about sick with worry when she woke up and didn’t see the child.”

  The detective almost snorted, his private opinion being that her desperation probably had as much to do with worrying about what the child might say as it did with worry for her whereabouts. “I assume you informed her that Miss Adler was taking perfectly adequate care.”

  “I knew nothing of the sort,” retorted the old lady. “Miss Adler is widely known to be almost bohemian in her habits.” She spoke the word as if it was akin to insanity of some kind, and the watching housemaid’s blue eyes seemed in danger of falling out of her head if she opened them any wider.

  “Shocking,” murmured the detective, sounding as if he meant the opposite. “I wonder, then, that you let her go so easily yesterday. As you see, the child returns in good health. Where is her mother? I would like to deliver her back personally.”

  “That’s not possible,” snapped the cook. “She still hasn’t left her room.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Holmes coolly, “I believe she will see me. Please inform her of my presence.”

  Mrs Merriwether stared at him a moment as if trying to ascertain her likelihood of winning a battle of wills, but she finally nodded curtly to the diminutive maid. “Lewis, go and ask if Mrs Phillimore wishes to see this man.”

  The girl looked confused for a moment. “The name is Sherlock Holmes,” the detective reminded her, trying to put her at her ease. It was obvious the cook wouldn’t be won over to his side, so he determined to cultivate a positive relationship with the younger girl in case the association might prove useful later.
r />   Eliza followed the housemaid upstairs, leaving Holmes alone with Mrs Merriwether, who showed her disdain by returning to her task of preparing vegetables as if the detective were not present, which suited him very well. Watson, he thought, would have been of great use in the present circumstance. He had a way with females in households everywhere that was unequalled by anyone else the detective had ever known.

  After a few moments, the housemaid returned, standing in front of Holmes with a look of official purpose about her. “Mrs Phillimore says that if you please to wait downstairs, she will see you.” The look the cook gave him was filled with malevolence.

  The detective followed the girl into the parlour and took his seat on one of the uncomfortable chairs. He was not surprised that Edith desired to see him in a formal setting. She was obviously an intelligent woman, intelligent enough to have realised that he was likely to have some idea of her subterfuge. The cold formality of the parlour would afford her, he thought, a stronger feeling of confidence than would a more intimate setting.

  The woman who joined him ten minutes later was pale and self-contained, though there was a desperation in her eyes that the detective hadn’t seen there before. He rose and smiled at her. “Good day, Mrs Phillimore. I’m sorry to importune you at a difficult time.”

  “I doubt it,” she answered weakly. “I assume you have questions for me.” She sat down opposite Holmes with resignation written in her every movement.

  If I had been less cautious I might have been more wise, but I was half crazy with fear that you should learn the truth.

  - The Adventure of the Yellow Face

  Chapter 7: Irene

  As soon as Holmes and the child had left for the farm, I made ready for my intended tasks. Perhaps it was petty of me, but I relished knowing that I had been able to conceal from Holmes my wish to make an investigation of my own. I dressed in one of my finer frocks and prepared to visit the home of Charles Stevenson, barrister, and his wife, Jane.