The Detective, The Woman and the Winking Tree

by Amy Thomas

  “Difficult but not impossible,” I answered. “It will be better, I believe, for Edith to know the truth as quickly as possible.”

  “Better, perhaps, but no less painful,” said my friend, and I was reminded that he understood human emotion far more completely than his reputation indicated.

  ***

  We parted after breakfast, the two men beginning the journey to the farm on foot, which befit the station they planned to imitate. I began my much briefer walk back to the Stevenson house, a journey that felt shorter than I wished it to be, so much did I loathe making it. Ever since Holmes had connected the threads of Julia’s shame and Edith’s sad deception, I had known that a moment like this must come. If Edith believed in her husband’s innocence against the evidence of his own odd behaviour, then it was unlikely, I knew, that she would take the word of someone else without the proof of her own eyes. Whether she would believe that Julia’s baby was actually her husband’s, I didn’t know. I hoped, however, that all of the circumstances would align in such a way that she would be forced to accept the truth, even if she could not do so at first.

  My own experience with my late husband’s duplicity had taught me the value of the brutal truth. Lies may feel safer and more comfortable, but they are poison. Better to know the ugly reality than a beautiful fiction.

  I found Julia pruning flowers in front of her family’s home. She smiled when she saw me approach, but her pale face and dark-rimmed eyes showed that she had slept little, if at all. “Good morning, Miss Adler,” she said softly, rising and taking my hand.

  “Good morning, Julia,” I said. “May I have a cup of tea?” I couldn’t face broaching the day’s subject in the front garden of the Stevenson home. The girl led me to the kitchen, which was part of the servants’ domain. I was surprised, but the maids and footmen we passed only nodded, and a few greeted “Miss Julia” as if they were used to her ways.

  “Mrs Teague,” said Julia, once we reached the environs of the kitchen, “I would like to make Miss Adler a cup of tea.” The cook nodded, and I watched as Julia made tea, an act that would have been quite normal for most of the people of the village, but which was, for the daughter of Charles Stevenson, almost an act of rebellion.

  Once the tea was made, Julia and I took our places at the servants’ table. “Please forgive my eccentricity,” said the girl, taking a sip of tea from her china cup. “I’ve always liked this part of the house best. When I was a little girl, I would come down here and learn all sorts of things from Teague and the others. I can polish a pair of my father’s shoes better than either of the current footmen. My parents thought I would grow out of my below-stairs enthrallment, but I never did. My visits became more discreet, but I was still a frequent guest up to the day of my wedding.” She flinched after she spoke the last word.

  “Don’t they mind the fact that you don’t keep your place?” I asked, more out of a desire to understand Julia than because I actually wondered. My experience with household servants made me well assured that they were likely to mind a great deal, though they would take pains to appear as if they did not.

  “My parents don’t know, and the others are used to me. They have to warn any new arrivals, but everyone adjusts in time. I’ve often thought the staff was more like my family than my parents are,” Julia finished. I couldn’t help doubting that the hardworking maids and footmen I saw could possibly feel the same way about the privileged daughter of the house.

  After a few moments of drinking my tea and bolstering my courage, I began. “Julia, I need you to do something that will be very difficult.”

  “Anything,” she said. “It doesn’t matter now.” I looked around to confirm that we were fully alone.

  “I fear you will feel differently in a moment,” I said, speaking quietly. “The truth is, James Phillimore deceived his wife as much as he did you. Rather than disappearing, he left the village on purpose to escape what he claimed was blackmail by Dr Clarke over something that concerned his parents. Edith chose to believe him. We need her help now, but I don’t believe we’ll be able to get it without you to corroborate your story. It may - it probably will be very difficult, but I see no other way to make Edith comprehend the depth of her husband’s deceitfulness.”

  “Penance is never easy,” said Julia.

  “It’s obvious that Phillimore actually fled to escape his wife finding out about the child and his relationship with you. I assume he convinced you to keep quiet to preserve your own reputation.”

  “Yes,” she answered. “He made it seem like my idea, but he assured me that if I breathed a word of what he’d done, we would go down together. He was afraid, though. I could see it in his eyes the last time we spoke.”

  “I’m sure, then, that part of his desperation was fear that you would tell his secret.”

  “He said he had always admired my discretion, and he made it seem like I would be a disappointment to him and to myself if I gave in and told anyone.”

  “Miss Adler - ” she met my eyes with fire in her own. “I’m glad Ed knows. Please, when I’m gone, tell him that I helped you. He might not think so ill of me if he knew.”

  “Tell him yourself,” I said, feeling a flash of something that was either inspiration or madness. “Speak to him before you go. You must agree that you at least owe him that.”

  “You’re sure he’ll see me?” she asked.

  “I’m sure,” I said.

  “Very well,” she answered, her eyes fixed on her pale hand as it rested on the table. “If you believe he wishes it, I will do so.”

  “I’m convinced he wishes it more than you can bear to believe,” I answered.

  ***

  Julia and I drove to the farm in silence. I had nothing more to tell her, since her part in the day’s events would depend on Edith as much as on either of us. I simply hoped I could avoid causing a scene that would bring unbearable pain to either of the two women. I like to pride myself on a certain measure of emotional objectivity, but I could not manage to detach myself from my dread of what I was about to undertake.

  We gained admittance to the house easily, and we were shown into the parlour, where Edith soon joined us. She looked surprised when she saw Julia, but I saw something flash across her face as she came into the room that suggested she might not be as shocked at what we were there to reveal as I’d feared.

  “Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department,” said Holmes, with a smile, when the dwindling frou-frou of skirts had ended in the slam of the front door.

  - The Adventure of the Second Stain

  Chapter 12: Holmes

  The detective and the doctor reached the Phillimore farm by midmorning, but instead of going to the house, they made their way across the fields to the gathering of homes where the workers lived with their wives. “I thought we were to infiltrate the household,” said Watson, who looked confused, but followed his flatmate in the usual way.

  “So we are, in a manner of speaking,” said Holmes, “but I happen to know that the cook is married to one of the men, and today is her day off. We will find her in her lair.”

  Watson sighed wearily, and Holmes stopped and looked at him for a moment. “I’m sorry, old friend. I didn’t mean to sap your strength.”

  “No matter,” said Watson. “It’s only my old injury. Perhaps if you tell me more about what I’m to do, it will help distract my mind from the discomfort.”

  “Very well,” said Holmes. “We know that Mrs Merriwether acted as an emissary of sorts between Phillimore and his wife, meaning that she was aware of Phillimore’s whereabouts. According to Eliza, the murdered man’s young daughter, Mrs Merriwether was also the first person called by Edith Phillimore when the child found the body.”

  “The child found the body? How dreadful for her,” Watson interjected with a pained expression on his amiable face.


  “She seemed to handle it decently enough,” said Holmes. “She thought her father was asleep.”

  “Seeming is different from being,” said the doctor. “I have attended at the homes of many children who were the unfortunate discoverers of a parent’s death, and not one of them was without a scar of some sort.”

  “Set your mind at ease,” said Holmes. “I spoke to her afterward and explained the truth.”

  “Very well,” said Watson. “Having witnessed your uncanny way with the children of London, I can hardly fail to believe in your capability when it comes to a child of Fulworth.”

  “Your concern does you credit,” said Holmes.

  “Our story,” the detective continued, “is that we are looking for work and heard that Mr Merriwether might be hiring extra hands. He’s in charge of the labourers and takes responsibility for many of those things. Of course, Oakhill Farm isn’t looking to take anyone on, and we won’t find Merriwether at home. Once we gain admittance, however, you can begin to work your usual magic on the cook.”

  “Why not go alone?” Watson asked. “You know the case much better than I do, and you’re familiar with the lady in question.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Holmes, “familiarity is not a blessing in the present circumstance. She deplores me in my normal guise. I believe I will succeed in not being recognised if I act like your nearly-mute friend. If I went alone, however, the risk of discovery would be much greater. Besides, Watson, you are far too modest. I have nowhere near your ability to put ladies of all ages and societal stations at their ease, nor do I wish to cultivate it.”

  “Your confidence in me is touching,” answered Watson drily. “If I am unable to succeed in gaining the information you require, what will you do then?”

  “I have every assurance that your conversation will be beneficial, but I will explore other avenues to the same conclusion if I must,” said Holmes.

  “I left my revolver at the cottage,” said Watson.

  “No matter,” his friend replied mildly. “I picked it up myself. Normally I would not take it upon myself to carry your weapon, but in the present situation, I will take your place as the silent witness with his hand on the trigger.”

  “You mock me, Holmes,” said the doctor. “It’s not sporting.”

  “Certainly not,” rejoined the detective. “Your silent vigilance has saved us from a tight spot many a time, and I’m not likely to forget it.”

  Finally, the two men reached a row of modest homes. Outside of the first, they found a girl putting clothes on a line. Her dress was torn, and she looked tired, but she smiled in a friendly way. “Where might we find the home of Mr Merriwether?” Watson asked, returning her smile.

  “It’s just there,” she said, pointing to a house three down from her own. It was a drab grey colour, much weathered by wind and rain, but respectably kept and slightly larger than the others around it. Holmes noticed that the girl did not look entirely pleased at the question, and as they turned to move on, she called after them, “You won’t get any help there.”

  “I fear she’s correct,” said Watson, once the two were out of earshot and nearly to the Merriwether home.

  “You are determined to sell yourself short,” said Holmes. “Besides, I’ll be here to rescue you if anything goes wildly amiss.” His flatmate shook his head resignedly and followed the detective up to the door.

  As Holmes had predicted, it was opened by the cook. Instead of her usual white apron over a practical grey frock, she was dressed in a garish yellow colour that reminded Holmes of the time he’d seen a child get ill on a train from London to Birmingham.

  “What do you want?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Please excuse our intrusion,” Watson answered smoothly. “My friend and I are looking for work and thought your husband might have some to offer.”

  Mrs Merriwether looked the doctor up and down. “Well,” she said, “you don’t talk like most of the men around here, and I rarely have visitors. Come inside and have a cup of tea.”

  “Thank you,” said Watson. “That would be very welcome.” The two men followed the cook into a small parlour that was as drab as the outside of the house, but neat. Holmes scrunched himself into the corner of a threadbare chair, folding into himself so that he would look like the more insignificant of the two companions, while Watson took his place on the doily-covered sofa. The lady of the house went to fetch something edible, and Holmes tried to look as if he didn’t notice the irritated look Watson bestowed upon him.

  When Mrs Merriwether returned, she bore a plate of iced biscuits that instantly repulsed the detective. He took one, however, along with a cup of tea that appeared more promising. “Now,” said the lady when both men had been served, “what sort of work were you looking for?” She fixed Watson with a sharply appraising stare. “You don’t seem much like a field worker, not with those hands.”

  Well done, thought Holmes, willing to acknowledge merit wherever he happened to find it. The doctor looked momentarily discomfited, but he rallied quickly. “My name is John Morstan. I’m a veterinary surgeon, and this is my friend Smith who assists me with the larger stock. I thought some of the animals might need looking after. I understand your husband has oversight of them.”

  “No,” she said, “for that you’d need Peter Warren, but Williams was just by not a week ago, and he looked them all over. Won’t be needing any more of your kind.”

  “That is unfortunate,” said the doctor. “I haven’t had biscuits as good as these since my wife passed away. It’s a pity we’ll have to move on without tasting more.” The cook blushed with pleasure at the compliment.

  Watson had a gift. Holmes couldn’t deny it. He might not be brilliant, but he was certainly skilled. The combination of compliment and pitiable revelation had obviously begun to win the woman over.

  “Stay and have a few more, then,” she said. “It’s not often I get to entertain in my own home. They’re always running me ragged at the big house.”

  “That must be difficult,” said Watson, “especially given the excitement of the past few days.”

  “Heard about that, have you?” she asked. “I suppose it’s all over the county now.”

  “I’m sure it must have been terrible for you,” said the doctor, “losing a member of the family with whom you have such a close association.”

  The cook sniffed meaningfully. “I don’t mean,” she said. “Never could bear the man. I only stayed around because of his wife, Edith Pope, as was. For her sake, I never said it when he was alive, but it doesn’t seem to matter now.”

  “Oh,” said Watson, “I understood him to have been a very pleasant man.” Holmes had told him nothing of the sort.

  “People always say the most ridiculous things about the dead,” said the woman. “He was a bad-tempered man until the day he disappeared. His only redeeming quality was his love for Edith, but even that failed at the end.”

  “I see,” said the doctor. “How did it fail?” He had gone too far. Holmes could feel the woman’s reticence return in an instant.

  “Nothing worth speaking about,” she said. “I ought to get back to my mending. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” She ushered the two men out the door as if she was afraid to keep them in her house.

  Once outside, Watson shook his head dejectedly. “I told you it would come to nothing,” he said. “I’m not cut out for this sort of thing.”

  “Not at all,” said Holmes pleasantly. “You did brilliantly.”

  “What do you mean?” asked his flatmate. “She barely spoke before I ruined the whole thing.”

  “My dear Watson,” said Holmes, “you must learn to view these things with a more careful eye. It is true that Mrs Merriwether did not reveal the entire plan of Phillimore’s flight and her involvement in it, but I hardly expected her to do so,
and I know some of her part anyway. What she did reveal is that she was aware, at least to some extent, of James Phillimore’s marital indiscretions. Her inclusion of the phrase ‘at the end’ suggests strongly that she was speaking of his relationship with Julia Rayburn.”

  Watson stared at his friend, and Holmes let out a dry laugh. “Well,” said the doctor, “if I’ve been of help, then I’m pleased.”

  “Always, my friend,” said Holmes, leading him back across the fields.

  ***

  The two men returned to the cottage, and Holmes transformed himself back into his usual guise. He could feel his brain working to make cohesive sense of the fractured pieces of information he now possessed, so he took his black notebook in hand and went to Irene’s bees.

  The detective spent the next half hour simply observing. First, he watched every tiny movement as if it were its own single event. Only after he had done that did he allow himself to watch them all together, to see the elaborate dance that made up the life of the hive. Such was the case, he thought. Such was every case, every collection of seemingly disparate events that nonetheless affected each other and connected intrinsically with one another.

  A man was dead. That was the beginning point, no matter where it fell in the narrative. The man had left home to escape the consequences of an illicit affair, ostensibly to never return. Instead, he had been killed and his body dumped in a prominent location at his own farm. Supposedly, only two people had known of the affair, the two who had engaged in it. But there was a third. The cook had known something, and that meant that others might know as well. The important question was who and what they had chosen to do with the information. That, Holmes realised, was almost certainly the key to unravelling the whole mystery of Phillimore’s death.

  In an experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents, I have never looked upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive nature.