by Amy Thomas
“I believe you,” said the detective. “Now, Mrs Phillimore, have you any idea who might have killed your husband? Did anyone other than the cook know of the plan?”
“No,” said Edith, “and even she didn’t know the particulars. She refused to let me tell them to her. I thought of the doctor, but I don’t know what he would have gained by killing a man who had been paying him regularly.”
“No,” said Holmes. The detective rose. “Thank you for your help, Mrs Phillimore. I will do my best to put an end to this mystery.”
The widow half smiled. “It’s ironic, Mr Holmes, but now I’m actually thankful to have you on the case.”
“Understandable,” he said, turning to leave, but Edith stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“I should thank you for being kind to Eliza. When I awoke, I was scared to death she’d found out about James by more difficult means. I’m so very glad she learned the truth from friends.”
“I’m glad you consider me a friend in this matter, Mrs Phillimore,” was all Holmes answered.
Holmes found the small maid beating rugs outside the farmhouse. “Miss Lewis,” he said, which turned her face red from the politeness of it, “do you know where I might find Dr Clarke from the village?”
“You know the Winking Tree on the green?”
“Yes.”
“Go beyond it to the big, ugly houses down the lane. His is the plainest one. Be careful he don’t dose you with something.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes, smiling to himself as he took his leave.
***
The housemaid, the detective soon realised, was not incorrect in her observation. The wealthiest members of Fulworth society had a row of houses that skirted the village, as if they were too rich to quite allow themselves to be a part of daily life, but too fond of recognition to be entirely out of it, either. One house, however, was noticeably plainer than the others, as if its size was for function rather than form. To this home the detective went, and he was met at the door by a solidly-built, middle-aged woman - Mrs Parkfield, the doctor’s assistant.
“Dr Clarke isn’t seeing patients today,” she said stiffly.
“I am not a patient,” said Holmes. “I wish to see him about the Phillimore murder.”
Without another word, the woman turned and disappeared into the house, her black skirt swooshing around her as if it was trying hard to keep up with its wearer. Holmes looked around him, and he understood the impression of functionality that seemed to pervade even the exterior of the house, for its front, at least, was furnished as a doctor’s surgery more than a home.
The woman in black returned after a few moments, and she motioned to Holmes. “Dr Clarke will see you in his study,” she said, already starting down a wide hallway. The detective followed, lengthening his strides to keep up with her brisk pace.
She led him to a large, book-lined room. “Here he is,” she said tersely, leaving Holmes just inside the door, facing a huge wooden desk at which was seated the elderly form of Dr Isaac Clarke.
“Good day, young Holmes,” he said.
“Doctor,” said the detective, taking his seat in a chair in front of the old man.
“I count that it has been above thirty years since I last laid eyes on you.”
“Quite right,” said Holmes. “When we last met, you were simply Clarke, a young man trying his hand as a doctor’s assistant.”
“I’m still simply Clarke,” said the doctor with a sardonic smile, “though hardly young any more. I knew you at Oakhill Farm, but I thought you might prefer not to be recognised while you were acting in your professional capacity.”
“I appreciate your discretion, though even now, I am acting in my professional capacity. I have heard a story today, and I wish to hear your explanation of it.”
“Indeed?” said the doctor, leaning back in his large chair.
“In short,” said Holmes, “Edith Phillimore claims that you blackmailed her husband into disappearing.”
“What?” The doctor sat forward in his chair and pushed his palms down on his desk forcefully. “What sort of motivation could have driven me to do such a thing?”
“Money,” said Holmes simply. “I would not suggest such a thing if I could avoid doing so.”
“Believe me,” said the old man with heightened colour, “it is only fondness for the boy you once were that is keeping you in this house at this moment.”
“Very well,” said the detective, unperturbed. “The widow claims that you extorted money from her husband by threatening to expose that he was the child of his father’s indiscretion with a household servant.”
The doctor’s face suddenly changed, and he threw back his head and laughed. “I don’t mean to be irreverent about a man’s death, Holmes, but Edith Phillimore is having you on or has been deceived herself. Robert Phillimore was as pure as the driven snow. I wasn’t the doctor who attended the birth. I confirmed Mrs Phillimore’s pregnancy, but she gave birth elsewhere, at her sister’s home in London. The family had three servants, all of whom were at home at the time. I am hardly the only person still living who was alive and would recall that no one in the household was with child except Louise Phillimore.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “I suspected this, but I am glad to hear your confirmation. The story the widow told me was deeply flawed, but I did not wish to dismiss the possibility until I had spoken to you.”
“Since you’re not likely to get much out of Graves, I should tell you that Phillimore had been dead for some time when he was found, several hours at least. His corpse showed signs of being dragged before it was placed in the carriage house. Here are my notes, if you care to see them.” The elderly doctor handed Holmes a stack of pages written in his spidery hand.
“Thank you,” said the detective. “Edith Phillimore knew that her husband planned to disappear. The question now is what happened to cleave soul and body in the mean time, causing him to never be seen alive again. I will take my leave to ponder the question.”
“Humour an old man and stay for tea - or perhaps something stronger,” said Clarke, smiling. “Since my dear wife’s death, I welcome rational company. I experience it so rarely.”
“Not today,” said Holmes, “but I promise to return before I leave the village.”
“Don’t forget that I used to let you read my books.”
“Certainly not,” said the detective, smiling.
There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before.
- A Study in Scarlet
Chapter 9: Irene
“Hello, Julia,” I said when she again opened the door of her parents’ home. I had been afraid she might try to keep me out, but she ushered me in with a quizzical expression.
“If you wish to speak to my mother,” she said softly, “I might be able to fetch her for you.”
“On the contrary,” I said, “I am here to speak to you.”
“Whatever for?” she asked, making no effort to seat me, but continuing to stand over me awkwardly in the opulent front hallway of the house.
“Your husband came to see me,” I said bluntly, hoping to shock her into a response.
“I see,” she answered, her face betraying nothing whatsoever. “Shall we walk outside?” I nodded, and she led the way out to the lane and away from the village. I respected her silence for several minutes and let myself enjoy the pleasure of being outdoors, but the sky began to turn grey, and I knew that rain was not far away.
“Come to my house,” I said, and Julia followed absently, as if her mind was entirely elsewhere. Had I not recognised the coming rain myself, I believe she would have stayed out in it and hardly noticed.
As it was, we reached my cottage just as the first fat drops began to make their acquaintance with the ground. I installed Julia on the s
ofa with one of Mrs Turner’s afghans and took my seat in Holmes’s wing chair, which seemed oddly appropriate under the circumstances.
“Julia,” I finally ventured, “I can’t think of an easier way to go about this. Your husband came to see me because he had a question that he didn’t want to ask you himself, but I have one that I’d like to ask first: Do you love him?”
The girl didn’t look up. Instead, she twisted one finger through a lock of her black hair and fidgeted with her other hand, staring hard at the lace pattern in the afghan on her lap. “I do love him,” she finally said, and the sudden intensity in her voice surprised me. “I wish I didn’t, but I do.”
“You know,” I said gently, “that his mother was a midwife.”
“Yes,” she answered, and the colour drained from her face. “You don’t mean he - ”
“He’s not a stupid man,” I said evenly, watching her. “He knows the signs, without even trying.”
What little doubt I’d had of the truth of Edward’s claim was immediately dispelled by the sob that burst from his wife’s throat. Julia put her hands in front of her face and leaned forward, weeping into her lap. I moved to sit beside her and put an arm around her shoulders the way Mrs Turner had used to do for me when dark memories clouded my first months in Fulworth.
As the distraught girl began to calm, my mind made a leap of intuition of which Holmes would not have approved. Or, perhaps, he would have said that my subconscious mind had somehow assimilated evidence that pointed where my conscious mind finally led me.
“Julia,” I said, “James Phillimore was the father of your child, wasn’t he?” In that moment, I knew what Holmes must feel when he revealed a deduction that held monumental power over someone’s very life.
Julia’s voice faltered, “Yes, that’s true.”
“I believe I know what happened,” I said. “Will it be easier for you if I suggest events? You may correct me if I’m wrong in particulars.”
She nodded. “Please.”
“Last year, you returned home from school. You had left Fulworth as a child, but you returned as a woman, in appearance if not in wisdom and experience. Somehow - perhaps at church or a village fete, you met a farmer.”
“The Harvest Festival,” she murmured. “He was showing flowers.”
“I won’t claim to know exactly what happened,” I said, “but believe me, I understand more than you could possibly realise. He asked for things, and you gave them. I think that you were not forced, but your naïveté was exploited.” She looked as if she might disagree, but she said nothing.
“He had a wife, but he said he didn’t love her, and you believed him.”
“No,” she said suddenly. “He told me that he loved her very much, but that he loved me even more. That is why I gave him what he asked for.”
“The two of you were discreet,” I continued, “and nothing disturbed you for a few months.”
“Except conscience,” Julia muttered, almost to herself.
“Then the worst thing of all - you were pregnant.”
I stopped speaking, and Julia continued instead. “I didn’t want to believe it, but I finally knew that it must be so. I didn’t go to the midwife; I knew my shame would be all over the village.”
“I expect you’re wondering where poor Edward comes into it. He’s always been in love with me. Before we were ten years old, we used to plan our life together. He was heartbroken when my parents sent me away to school, and when I came back, he asked to court me. I declined several times. James Phillimore was a mystery and a prize. Edward had always been available whether I wanted him or not.”
“After I knew the baby was coming, I wrestled with myself. Edward, I knew, would come the moment I called him. His name and standing were a way out of my difficulty. Other women in the village have given birth before their times, and I knew that Edward would propose very quickly if I would let him. I could, I thought, make it seem that the child was his, and if any tongues wagged in the village, they would think that any indiscretion had occurred between a couple who were now married. With luck, however, I planned to pass it off as a premature birth.”
“You may not believe me, but I could hardly bear to do it. I had a sister’s affection for Edward that was left over from childhood, but it became even worse than that. As we began to court, I finally understood what kind of man he was. I saw him with new eyes. Phillimore could be cold and even cruel, but Edward was kind and gentle. He respected me as James never did. The regret, you may imagine, was excruciating, as I realised what I had given up for a few occasional moments with a man who had never truly loved me.”
“Phillimore took monstrous advantage of you. Where was he when all of this was occurring?”
“He never saw me again after I knew about the baby. He said it would be better for me not to be seen with him. The only promise he made was that he would leave the village.”
“Better for you, my eye,” I snorted.
“I know that now,” she said, “but it was like he’d cast a spell on me. I can see why Edith married him. He could be very, very charming in a mysterious way, as if you might just come to know him if you stayed around a moment longer, but the right moment never came, and he never gave anything of himself.”
“I understand,” I said, meaning it.
“I’ll have to leave Edward, of course,” she faltered. “He’s far too lovely a man to be chained to a woman like me.”
“He is a good man,” I agreed, “but there’s no need for you to be a martyr. He’s willing to forgive.”
“I don’t care,” said Julia. “I’d no right to try to trap him this way. Even if he hadn’t figured it out, I don’t think I could have managed to go through with it. At least, Miss Adler, you can think that much good of me.”
“Believe me,” I answered, “I’m not claiming any sort of superiority. I know that my past is a rumour in the village, and believe it or not, the truth is more sensational than the whispers.”
“Really?” Julia looked slightly incredulous. “I’d always assumed it was just because you’re a bit - unusual and unmarried and American.”
“I am all those things,” I said, “and I’m a widow, but I’ve also been a thief and other less mentionable things. You should ask Mr Holmes about it some time.”
“What about your Mr Holmes?” she asked, half smiling for the first time since she’d entered my house.
“Holmes,” I said, “is as the Bible says: The same yesterday, today, and forever.”
“There’s a great deal to be said in favour of that,” Julia mused, unconsciously touching her belly. “Ed thinks I’m spending the night at my mother’s,” she continued. “Tomorrow I’ll figure out where I’m to go.”
“Must you be so hasty?” I asked. “Can’t you give your husband a chance to prove his love?”
“He’s already borne far too much,” she said resignedly.
“Phillimore is at least as responsible as you are, and in my eyes, much more,” I said, trying again.
“I don’t dispute that,” she said, “but I’m the one who duped Edward into giving me his name.”
“True,” I said, “but now that he knows, he gives it willingly.” I hesitated for a moment. “Julia, I am more than ten years older than you are, and I know how rare men like Edward Rayburn are in this world.”
“Do you also know what it’s like to contemplate incurring a debt to someone that can never possibly be repaid?” she asked bitterly.
“Yes,” I answered, looking around at the home Holmes had given me, “I do.”
Julia rose then, and she left the cottage without another word, walking home to her mother through the afternoon rain.
***
I did not notice when Holmes entered the house, so deep was I in thought. He took his place opposite me on the s
ofa. “I see that Rayburn paid you a visit. His boots left traces of a peculiarly-coloured clay that is only found in the part of the county where his farm is situated.”
“Yes,” I said, “both he and his wife came to see me, but separately.”
“I see,” said my friend. “Had these visits anything to do with the case?”
“I don’t know yet,” I answered. “Edward came to tell me that he suspected his wife was pregnant with the child of another man, and Julia corroborated his suspicion.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Was Rayburn asking for help to extricate himself?”
“No, he doesn’t want help,” I said quietly, looking out the window into the falling dusk.
“As I would have expected, from what you said of his character before,” said my companion, lighting his pipe with long, steady fingers.
“I did not,” I replied.
“Perhaps you credit the fairer sex with a better-developed ability to forgive.”
“Or perhaps I think us undeserving of such profligate kindness,” I retorted, a trifle bitterly.
“Kindness is far from profligate when it is bestowed on the object of one’s regard,” said Holmes quietly. I stopped myself before I asked him how he knew.
I have not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing.
- The Hound of the Baskervilles
Chapter 10: Holmes
The detective watched his companion carefully. He had learned that like Watson’s, but unlike his own, her moods were subject to change based on the fluctuations of a case and the information she uncovered. He sometimes wondered what it would be like to inhabit such a mercurial existence, to be at the mercy of whatever one happened to discover. He did not relish the idea.
“I take it, by your obvious eagerness to tell me more, that these encounters of your afternoon somehow potentially relate to the Phillimore case, as opposed to simply being a tangle of human affections in the common way,” he finally said.