The Detective, The Woman and the Winking Tree

by Amy Thomas

  The Stevenson home was on the coastal edge of the village, one of those houses that looks as if it would be bad tempered if it could speak. It was large and white and ugly and undoubtedly worth a great deal. I didn’t look forward to entering it for the second time in my life, but I was determined to find out why Charles Stevenson had been in the Phillimore farmhouse on the day of the murder and if his presence had been a result of the discovery of the body or something prior to it. I couldn’t get him out of my mind; the idea of a man like him coming to discuss business with a woman seemed hard to credit. Perhaps it was an insignificant detail, but I didn’t like to leave anything unexplained.

  I put on my most simpering smile and tucked a wisp of hair behind my ear - small ears are not always an advantage when one wishes to keep one’s hair under control - and made my way up the tree-lined path to the door. I could see a maid’s face pressed against the window, and I expected to see her starched self in the doorway.

  Instead, the tall, ornate door was opened by a large-boned, dark-haired girl with a determined chin. “Julia,” I said, surprised, “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  She smiled with a look of defiance in her eyes that I couldn’t place; we had never been enemies. “Come in, Miss Adler, I’ll tell Mother you’ve come.”

  “No need,” I said suddenly, improvising. “I’m just as happy to visit with you.” I did my best to look as though nothing was amiss in the world.

  Julia nodded, though she did not smile, and told the maid to order tea. I followed her into a small breakfast room, thinking all the while about how I might ask her what she knew about her father’s involvement with the Phillimore tragedy.

  We sat down at a small table that was arrayed in a lace tablecloth of ridiculous intricacy and stared at one another. Julia’s taciturnity was uncharacteristic, but I knew her to be direct, and I made a decision to be the same. With her mother, I would have been far more subtle, but I knew the daughter to be boldly honest.

  “I came to find out why your father was at the Phillimore house yesterday,” I said. “You have heard, I am sure, that Sherlock Holmes of London is currently my guest, and his intent in being here is to unravel the James Phillimore case. I simply wish to know when your father arrived at the house.”

  Julia turned as white as the lace tablecloth, and the hand that held her teacup shook. For a moment, I was afraid she might faint. Her discomfiture shocked me and sent my thoughts into a whirlwind. Of all possible scenarios, this was certainly not one I had anticipated. For a moment, I wondered stupidly if she might have misheard my question, but I had spoken clearly.

  “I - I don’t know,” she finally stuttered out. “My father isn’t here, and my mother wouldn’t know either. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  It’s not to my credit to admit that I accepted her answer, but my amazement at her response had disturbed me to the point that I let her usher me out before the tea had even been brought. I walked home without realising where my feet were taking me, lost in an attempt to figure out what had just happened.

  Once I was alone, I thought through events. Julia’s presence at her parents’ home wasn’t unusual in itself; a new bride living near her parents has every right to visit them. At the same time, her relationship with her father was widely known to be strained, ever since he’d tried to prevent her marriage with Edward Rayburn. The fact that he had eventually relented had not, apparently, healed the breach. Of course, I reasoned, no one knew of any bad blood between Julia and her mother, which could account for her visit.

  Her reaction to my question was another matter entirely. I’d fully expected her to say she knew nothing of the matter at all. Barring that, I’d anticipated a mundanely businesslike answer relating to her father’s professional capacity. What I had certainly not expected was an emotional reaction, particularly one as extreme as she had expressed. Clearly, it pointed to something, and I determined to puzzle it out while drinking a pot of tea.

  I found Mrs Turner darning socks, a pastime she enjoyed to an extent I could not fathom. She looked up with a certain kind of disapproval when I entered, a look that I had learned meant she was pleased to see me. I smiled. “I’ve just finished a most unaccountable social call,” I said, “and I need tea to help me think it over.” This appeal was successful in its blatant attempt to move the heart of my housekeeper, and she rose majestically and went into the kitchen. I knew, to my delight, that a pot of tea also meant an array of biscuits and cakes.

  I sat down at the table with a few sheets of notepaper. At the top of the first sheet, I wrote, “Julia Rayburn Problem,” but before I got any further, I heard someone at the door. After the excitement of the previous two days, I felt I was prepared for anyone to be standing in my doorway. I was wrong.

  The form that greeted me was that of none other than Edward Rayburn. He took his hat off and stared at me uncertainly, as though I might bite.

  “Please come in, Mr Rayburn,” I said, taking pains to conceal my considerable surprise. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

  The young man followed me like a large puppy and sat on the edge of the sofa as if he was afraid of soiling it. My unflappable housekeeper immediately materialised with two teacups instead of one and a variety of edibles which would have satisfied eight people as well as two.

  Edward held his teacup gingerly, as if it might come alive in his hand, then cleared his throat and blurted out, “Miss Adler, my mum was a midwife.”

  “Yes - I know,” I answered, slightly shocked. I didn’t mind the discussion of such things, but they were usually far from the lips of the villagers, especially men.

  “It is - I mean, when I was a little boy, she used to take me on her rounds with her. I wouldn’t be in the room, you understand, but I knew what went on.”

  “Very proper, I’m sure,” I said, trying to encourage his halting narrative.

  “The thing is, I think Julia - is - ” He couldn’t continue. I waited for a moment, but it was obvious that uttering the word in my presence was more than he could manage.

  “You mean that Julia is going to have a baby?” I asked matter-of-factly, hoping that my tone would help to put him at his ease. He nodded, blushing red to the tips of his large ears.

  “I didn’t know who else to talk to, Miss Adler. It’s - you know, it’s too soon for that with us, at least for - for any of the signs. I didn’t want to believe it, but it’s getting more and more obvious.”

  “You came to me because you know my past reputation,” I said.

  “It wasn’t just that,” he answered, raising his head and looking at me with clear green eyes. “Julia likes you. She doesn’t like many people around here, but she likes you.”

  “I see. You understand what this means if it’s true,” I continued.

  “I do,” he answered.

  “What will you do? You’d have reason to leave her.”

  Edward fixed me with a steady gaze. “You’re quite mistaken, Miss Adler, if you think I’d ever do that.”

  “What?” I’m afraid I looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

  “My feelings have not changed,” he said simply.

  “I don’t like the idea of you as a martyr,” I returned with equal directness.

  He laughed, and his face transformed into a boy’s. “I’m much too happy to be a martyr. Julia is the best company I’ve ever had. I can’t do without her.”

  “You don’t mind?” I asked, still unable to comprehend his position.

  “Yes,” he said, “but all the minding I’ve done has only reminded me of how much I care for her. I know that she did not always care for me, but I believe she does now.”

  “I cannot argue with you,” I said, “though I urge you to consider your position.”

  He smiled again. “I used to wonder what I could possibly do for her, how a farmer could ev
er give anything to a woman like her. Now I have something to give, and it’s mine alone.”

  “What would you like me to do?” I asked.

  “I want to know if I’m right,” he said, “from her own mouth. I can’t ask her, but I believe she would tell you. I don’t want to hear it from someone else. I just - want her to tell me herself. I would forgive her if she would just tell me.”

  I paused before answering. “Very well. I will do what I can.” He left then, and I sat alone in my house for a long time. I had little doubt that Rayburn’s suspicion was correct. He wasn’t a stupid man, and he adored Julia. That, coupled with her strange behaviour, made me think that he was not likely to be mistaken.

  I did not claim a position of moral superiority, but my sensibilities revolted from the idea that Julia had married the farmer simply for his name or the status of marriage. Had she thought he was stupid enough to accept a child as his own without question, even if the timing was wrong? Of course, most men did not have Rayburn’s knowledge of the first signs of pregnancy. That was the curse of irony, it seemed. Julia had married the one man in Fulworth most likely to figure out her situation.

  Mrs Turner brought lunch to me after a while, but I didn’t eat. For once, knowing what I needed to do chased away my appetite completely. I didn’t want to speak to Julia, didn’t want to be part of a something between a man and his wife. But there was something in Edward’s manner that wouldn’t let go of me. He was, I thought, a good man. I had known very few of those in my life. I had known plenty of women in trouble similar to Julia’s, victims of men with hearts as small as Edward Rayburn’s was vast. As much as I sympathised with whatever might have led to Julia’s circumstances, though, I could not condone the use of a good man by a woman who simply needed his name. And yet - I had seen the look of love in Julia’s eyes when she watched her husband. I had observed the way she spoke to him and watched her smile when he took her hand, small moments when she thought no one else was paying attention. Given what I had seen, I would never have doubted her affection, and I still found it difficult to do so. I didn’t know what to think. Truthfully, I wished for Holmes, to be able to explain the situation to him and hear his assessment. Unfortunately, he was at the farm, and in any case, his presence was not conducive to the task I had agreed to undertake for Edward

  I was beginning to feel as if I were in some strange, enchanted state in which everywhere I visited must be visited again and again - first the Phillimore farm and now the Stevenson house, where I expected Julia to have remained. I didn’t let myself speculate about what I would find when I arrived. A great many of Holmes’s opinions were not shared by me, but I found his revulsion to guessing extremely reasonable. I could not manage to be as religious as he was about eradicating the practise altogether, but in the present circumstance, I forced my mind to focus on other topics. If Julia was pregnant, the ramifications would be ample, but since I could not yet know, I filled my walk to the house with thoughts about the Phillimore case and the things I knew of it, though they did not seem a great many when I’d added them all up in my mind. I hoped Holmes might have something of value to add when he returned.

  But the deception could not be kept up forever.

  - A Case of Identity

  Chapter 8: Holmes

  Holmes looked at the pale woman opposite him, and he saw neither a cold-blooded killer nor a greedy swindler. “Perhaps it will be easier for you if I begin with what I know,” he said.

  “Very well,” she answered listlessly.

  “Some time before the wedding of Julia Stevenson and Edward Rayburn, your husband got into some sort of trouble, serious enough for him to consider fleeing Fulworth. You decided to stage his disappearance as a mystery, so that whomever he felt threatened by would think that there was no hope of finding out his whereabouts from you. Not wishing, I suspect, to disrupt a wedding, you waited until after the ceremony had concluded to deliver your shocking news. The police were called, but you had been careful, and they did not find any clue to your husband’s whereabouts.” While the detective spoke, Edith’s face remained impassive.

  “The importance of Eliza’s rabbit took me a little while to puzzle out, but I determined that he was a signal between you and your husband. Once you had played your part and alerted the village to James’s disappearance, you posted it to him, mailing it to a predetermined location. In return, your husband posted it back to you to confirm that he had reached his destination without issue. I assume a servant was used to post and retrieve it so that it could be placed in a way that made it seem as if Eliza had simply misplaced her toy.”

  “I began to suspect all of this when I perceived your distaste for my presence and your strong reaction to my interest in Eliza’s rabbit. You had fooled the police, but you did not fool me, as I think you realised.”

  “When do you intend to tell the police?” asked Edith, defeat in her voice.

  Holmes drilled her with his eyes. “As you have probably ascertained, if I told them this, they would immediately believe they had found the murderer - a wife with knowledge of her husband’s whereabouts that no one else had, who stood to do quite well if he died. This is why I do not intend to tell them anything until I have discovered the murderer.”

  “You don’t believe I’m guilty?”

  “Of deceit, yes. Of murder, no. If you wish the real murderer to be found, however, you must tell me the entire truth about your husband’s flight.”

  “Very well.” Edith looked away from Holmes then, clenching her hands as if she were a nervous child. “Six weeks ago, my husband started acting strangely. You will have heard that he is - was - not a sociable man, but he became even less so than usual. He hardly spoke, and he seemed absent, as if he were with me in body but not in spirit.”

  “After a week, I asked him what was wrong. He - had never acted to me the way he acted to everyone else. I had always been his confidante, so I could not understand his newfound reticence. He wouldn’t answer at first, but finally he told me the truth: He was being blackmailed.”

  “By whom?”

  “You may have seen the doctor who was here yesterday - Dr Clarke from the village. He blackmailed my husband in several letters.”

  “May I see them?”

  “I’m afraid not. James took them with him. They haven’t been found. I never saw them. James was too ashamed to show them to me.” Holmes let out a nearly imperceptible huff of frustration.

  “What was the matter of the blackmail?”

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. Dr Clarke has been the family physician since before my husband was born. He threatened to reveal that James’s real mother was the family’s housemaid, who died several years ago.”

  “A fact that had been known to your husband?”

  “No, he’d never known until he received the first letter.”

  “And what was the doctor hoping to gain?”

  “Money. James never told me how much, but he paid him regularly for a while. There was no proof of what he said, of course, but my husband couldn’t bear the thought of having the whole village wonder about his father and drag the family’s name through the mud. He hated being singled out.”

  “But why now?”

  “James said it was because Dr Clarke had speculated and was trying to glean money from whatever possible quarters he could.”

  “I see,” said the detective. “What led to the disappearance?”

  “After I had finally convinced James to tell me what was troubling him, he also told me that things could not continue as they were, or we would be unable to pay. I tried to convince him to go to the police, but he, I’m afraid, had given up. Dr Clarke is a powerful and respected man.”

  “James began to insist that he couldn’t stay in Fulworth. I begged him to reconsider, but he believed that his position was untenable here. What he hoped was
to leave and bring Eliza and me to join him later, taking care of selling the farm from afar and anonymously. You may - you may, Mr Holmes, think that my husband’s actions were extreme, but you didn’t know him. He valued his pride very, very highly, and he’d always felt that as a farmer, he could never match the power of men like the doctor.”

  “Please continue with the specifics of the plan,” said Holmes, beginning to tire of the subjective aspects of the narrative.

  “It was as you said. We determined that James would leave on the day of the wedding so that I could reveal his disappearance in a place where the whole village could hear of it, including the doctor. He went back inside for his umbrella and hid in the cellar until the property was clear of people so that it would seem as if he’d simply vanished. Once the police investigation was concluded, I was to depart the village with my little girl and meet him, leaving the farm in the hands of Warren and the other farmhands until it could be quietly sold. I didn’t know precisely where he intended to settle, but he was to write and tell me in a few weeks. The return of Eliza’s rabbit was assurance that all was proceeding smoothly - until yesterday.” Edith’s voice faltered, and she ceased speaking for a moment. “I - didn’t expect to never see him again, you know. It’s like he really disappeared, Mr Holmes. My husband went back into the house, and all that’s left is his shell.” She dabbed hard at her eyes for a moment.

  “Who posted the rabbit?” asked Holmes.

  “The cook, Mrs Merriwether,” Edith replied. “I think she would kill for me.” After she realised what she’d said, she shook her head sharply. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “I didn’t expect so,” said Holmes. “I had already observed her loyalty to you.”

  “Do you know the vicinity of your husband’s destination?”

  “That’s the problem,” said Edith. “I don’t know. The rabbit was sent to a specific address in London, where my husband’s cousin resides, but James didn’t plan to stay there. I thought - I thought he was somewhere else in London, but I have no idea where.”