by Amy Thomas
- The Sign of Four
Chapter 13: Irene
“Inspector Graves just left,” said Edith as she took a seat across from Julia and me. “They’ve been combing the grounds again, looking for new evidence, but they can’t find anything.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That must be very difficult for you.”
“I would put up with a lot more if it would help them find my husband’s murderer,” she said, and I took my opportunity, fearing that if I did not do so right away, I wouldn’t manage it at all.
“That’s why we’ve come,” I said. “We want to tell you something that may have power to alter your view of events. I’m afraid - ” I looked over at Julia, who was deathly pale, “that it may also prove distressing for you, and for that I apologise in advance.”
Edith laughed. “I hardly see what could be more distressing than what I’ve already experienced.”
Suddenly, I wanted to laugh, in that horrible, untimely way that hits one at funerals or at the most sombre moments in church. The irony was piercing. I stifled the laugh, but as a result, there was a moment of quiet.
“Miss Adler, I’ll do it myself,” said Julia very softly, finally breaking the heavy silence.
I looked at her in surprise. “Would you like to be alone?”
“Yes,” she answered, with her old resolve back in her voice. Edith’s expression was guarded, and I had no idea what she might be thinking or anticipating, but I trusted Julia, so I took my leave and went outside. Truthfully, I was delighted to be relieved of an unpleasant task, and it seemed like a certain kind of poetic justice for Julia to be the bearer of the news.
The midmorning was slightly cool, and I took the path away from the house, not really intending to do anything in particular but hoping I might observe something useful. I had spent so much time at the farm over the previous few days that it seemed impossible that I would miss anything that hadn’t been there before.
As I approached the barn, I saw two men standing outside the door, and I heard one of them say, “I don’t understand why we’re even working. Phillimore’s dead, and his wife don’t care one way or the other.”
“We will work as long as there’s work to be done,” answered another voice, and Peter Warren appeared at the door to the barn. He saw me and removed his cap, which caused the other two to turn and do the same.
“Forgive me,” I said. “I had no intention of disturbing your work.”
“Seems to me, Miss Adler,” said the tall foreman, “that you’re very good at disturbing people’s work.” I was prepared to be affronted, but he smiled then, and his smile changed his face so completely that I was amazed. No longer was he the severe man I’d imagined him to be; instead, he was the husband and father I’d never quite been able to picture him being.
He came toward me and spoke quietly. “The little girl’s in the carriage house. She might need some company.”
“Thank you,” I answered. I didn’t wish to walk through the barn and endure more stares, so I went back around to the outside entrance, thinking as I did so that James Phillimore would never again drive out of it, except if he were to do so in his ghostly form. It was an extremely fanciful image, but I could almost visualise the spectre of the dead man riding restlessly through the grounds of his farm.
I dismissed the picture from my mind as I crept back to the dark corner where Eliza had brought me before. The sound that greeted me was one I hadn’t heard before; she was crying.
As quickly as I could, I sat down on the dirty floor and gathered her close, rocking her in my arms. She clung to me and buried her wet face in my shoulder, holding Charles tightly. “They took all my things away,” she sobbed, her voice muffled by the cloth of my green shirtwaist.
“I’m so sorry, darling,” I said. “It was dreadful of them. We must bring new things.”
“No!” she said, shaking her head emphatically against me. I just held her then, not knowing what to say to ease her sadness. I am no psychologist, but I wondered how many of her tears were due to the death of her father and how many to the maelstrom around her.
After a long time, she sat up and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Is Mr Holmes here?”
“Not now,” I said, smiling.
“Charles wanted to see him,” she said.
“Then he shall,” I answered. “You and he and Mummy must come to my house very soon.” This seemed to content her. She leaned against me once again, and very soon, she fell asleep.
I carried Eliza, who was heavier than she looked, back to the servants’ entrance of the house and handed her to Lewis the maid, who smiled at the sight of her sleeping form. I didn’t relish the thought of returning to the cold parlour where the two women were, but didn’t think I could forestall it any longer. With head held high, I made my way back to the front of the house, determined to make the best of whatever sight was to greet me.
I don’t know what I expected, but I certainly did not anticipate finding Edith Phillimore holding Julia Rayburn’s hand gently and smiling at her with a look of genuine peace that I hadn’t seen on her face for some time.
Both women looked up when I entered. “Sorry to intrude,” I said, feeling like I’d been apologising a great deal that day, something that is not my usual practise.
“It’s all right,” said Julia, and I saw traces of tears on her face, though she smiled at me.
“I understand,” said Edith, “and I will help any way I can, though Julia and I both ask, if possible, that my husband’s - associations be kept private, if they may be.”
“I will do the very best I can,” I said, “and Mr Holmes has no intention of publicising them.”
“I know that it may not be possible,” said Julia, “but for my husband’s sake, I hope that it is.” I wondered to myself what Edith might have said to her on that topic, but I didn’t pry, and our ride back to the village was as silent as our ride to the farm had been until we were nearly to the Stevenson house.
“Thank you for that,” said Julia suddenly.
“You have yourself to thank,” I said. “I was just the messenger.”
She laughed. “That’s what you really think, isn’t it? No wonder you and Mr Holmes get on so well.”
I left her at her parents’ home, but extracted a promise from her that she wouldn’t leave Fulworth until the conclusion of the case, which she was only willing to give on the assurance that she might be needed by Edith, depending on developments.
I made my way back up the hill, glad that I did not know what had passed between the two women. Edith had surprised me slightly, though I thought I understood her reaction. There’s a kind of stubbornness that clings to a flawed way of thinking but is actually relieved to be proven wrong, to have legitimate doubts confirmed. I had known that stubbornness and the relief that comes from being delivered of it.
***
When I reached home, I went to check on my bees and found that they had a strange companion, a detective with long fingers and luminous eyes. “Hello, Irene,” he said without turning around as I came up behind him.
“Hullo, Holmes.”
“The bees seem well contented,” he mused.
“They are,” I answered. “I am happy to say that their care is rather less complicated than solving criminal cases.”
“I don’t know,” said my friend. “Both are a matter of small parts that fit into a unified whole.”
“When it comes to the murder of James Phillimore, I fear that I understand a great deal of the parts and very little of the whole,” I admitted.
“Well, Watson and I were not entirely unsuccessful,” said Holmes. “Come inside, and we shall tell you our discovery.”
“Poor Watson,” I said.
“Not so,” said Holmes. “He performed his task with success.”
**
*
When my friend and I reached the cottage, we found Dr Watson and Mrs Turner conversing congenially over cold meat pies. The sight of food reminded my stomach that it was starving, and I sat down to relieve my hunger pangs. Holmes didn’t seem to notice the spread, making his way to the wing chair instead. My curiosity warred with my hunger, but physical cravings won out over mental ones, and I began to eat.
“I hope your errand was successful,” said the doctor kindly.
“Very,” I answered between mouthfuls. “Edith Phillimore is fully on our side and apprised of the situation.”
“I can’t help feeling our task was less elegantly done,” said Watson, “but Holmes seems to have gleaned something useful out of it.”
I noticed that Mrs Turner smiled a great deal whenever the shorter man spoke, though she did not comment. It was her usual habit to eat her meals with me, but I had been surprised at her readiness to do so with my guests, not from any reticence on my part but an expected hesitation on hers. I was beginning, I thought, to understand.
I ate quickly, wanting to combine my thoughts with Holmes’s as quickly as I could, wondering if he had come any closer to apprehending what was still impenetrable to me. When I’d had my fill, I rose from the table. “Excuse me,” I said to doctor and housekeeper, “please don’t feel the need to hurry. I wish to discuss the morning with Holmes.”
Dr Watson nodded. “Yes, before you came, Mrs Turner was telling me about some of the local legends. I would like to hear more if she isn’t bored with the subject.” The lady in question blushed like a schoolgirl and showed no sign of leaving the table.
I joined my friend in the other room, surprised to realise how comfortable I felt as I settled onto the sofa and looked at his face with its languid expression that denoted acute mental activity. “Now, Holmes,” I said, “relieve my misery and tell me the result of your attempt at Mrs Merriwether.”
“Watson’s attempt,” he corrected. “I’m happy to say that our mutual friend more than outdid himself, albeit somewhat accidentally.”
“I’m well aware of Dr Watson’s talents,” I said sharply, not meaning the comment ironically, though given what was occurring at my table at that moment, I suppose it was.
“Very well,” said Holmes, with infuriating mildness. “We went to the woman’s house, were treated as strangers, and Watson engaged her on the subject of the Phillimore murder after a well-placed comment on the excellence of her iced biscuits.”
I laughed. “I take it she said something significant.”
“She spoke few words, but she insinuated that she knew Phillimore had not been faithful to his wife. More specific she would not be, but she certainly knew something.”
“If she knew, why would she not have told Edith?”
“It’s a fascinating question to ponder,” said Holmes. “Given her vital role in the man’s flight, I expect that she intended to tell Edith at a later date and convince her to never rejoin her husband once he had left. She seems uncommonly attached to her.”
“That I can corroborate,” I said, “but mightn’t she be the murderer?”
“A sour disposition does not necessarily single one out as a killer,” said Holmes, smiling. “A murderer would have been far more careful with his words than she was, though I believe our appearing to be strangers loosened her lips to an unusual extent. At any rate, I don’t believe she killed the man.”
“I suppose it’s helpful to rule her out as a suspect,” I said.
“Very,” said Holmes, “but the question now is, would she have told someone, and if so, who?”
“I fear we have a great many possibilities,” I said.
“Fewer, perhaps, than it seems at first blush,” said my friend, his voice taking on a schoolmasterly tone. “In every case, there is a limited number of concerned individuals with probable involvement. If none of them prove to be the culprit, then the gaze must widen, but the first task must be to rule each of them out.”
“We know that neither Edith nor Julia was aware that she knew. We can also rule out Phillimore himself because he must have known she was to be in charge of the posting of the rabbit, and he would have been very unlikely to trust her or quietly allow his wife to do so if he’d known. Warren, one of the police’s favourites, is clearly unaware, or he would have used the information to throw suspicion off himself. Dr Clarke, who by rights shouldn’t even be involved, would certainly have told me if he’d suspected anything. We know Julia didn’t consult him or the midwife, so that’s another pathway taken to its conclusion.”
“Julia’s father,” I said. “We don’t know why Charles Stevenson was there.” Suddenly, a host of possibilities crowded into my mind that hadn’t been there before I’d learned Julia’s secret. Her revelation and the subsequent events had banished her father’s presence from my mind, but the memory of my encounter with him in the Phillimore parlour rushed back forcefully.
“Precisely,” said Holmes, and I could see with infuriating clarity that he had known where the conversation was headed all along and was simply waiting for me to catch up to his reasoning.
“Clearly, you’re ahead of me,” I said, a trifle testily. “What do you have in mind?”
“I plan to visit him this afternoon. Do you care to join me?”
“I hadn’t anticipated such a direct approach,” I answered.
“Give me a small amount of credit,” said Holmes. “I don’t plan to greet the man with an accusation of guilt. I have my methods of encouraging revelation.”
“Very well,” I answered, “but don’t expect an easy time of it. He’s unpleasant at the best of times.”
“Watson,” called Holmes to his flatmate, who was still at the table conversing animatedly with my housekeeper, “three will be too many for this task, I fear. If you are favourably disposed, Miss Adler and I will leave you to your own devices.”
“Certainly,” said the doctor, looking excessively pleased.
***
“Holmes, you are positively a romantic,” I said as we strolled down the lane that would take us to the office of Charles Stevenson.
“Nothing of the sort,” he retorted.
“You can’t claim,” I replied, “that you are ignorant of the attachment currently developing within the walls of my house.”
“Watson,” said the detective, “has many talents, one of which is the ability to form absurdly rash attachments.”
“But is it rash?” I asked. “He has known Mrs Turner for some time, and she has always admired him.”
I looked up at my friend with a mischievous glint in my eye. “Holmes, I believe you would consider attachment of any kind to be unforgivably rash, except that of yourself to your chemistry set.”
“Nonsense, Irene,” he answered. “I’m at least as attached to my tobacco.” My laugh rang out in the clear, open air.
Presently, I spoke again. “If there is a perfectly logical explanation for Stevenson’s presence at the farm, what do you intend to do?”
“If that happens,” he said, “we will follow the clues and see where else they lead us. I do not believe, however, that we will have to concern ourselves with that.”
“You believe Stevenson is the murderer?”
My friend spoke soberly. “I deal in certainties rather than probabilities, but I saw something interesting as Watson and I made our way back to the village. Another person was making his way toward the farm workers’ cottages. He was far away, but I could tell by his gait and shape that it was the man I had seen standing over Phillimore’s body.”
“Stevenson was going to speak to Mrs Merriwether?”
“I am not certain,” he answered, “but it’s highly suggestive. None of the families who live in those houses could ever hope to afford his services, so it’s unlikely he would have been calling in his pr
ofessional capacity. It’s also hard to imagine a man with his love of outdoing his neighbours idly visiting one of the poorest places in the area unless he had a pressing reason.”
“Upon my word, Holmes,” I said, “will you never stop concealing vital clues from me?”
“I meant no such thing,” he answered calmly. “I merely meant to give your mind ample time to process our earlier conversation before I added this development.” I folded my arms, irritated.
“That hurts my pride, Watson,” he said at last. “It is a petty feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride.”
- The Five Orange Pips
Chapter 14: Holmes
The detective continued, undaunted by his companion’s annoyance. “I also wished to share the information right before we see the man. I thought it might inflame you to your present state of aggravation, which I hope will prove helpful in our exchange.”
In a moment, The Woman had stepped in front of Holmes and turned around, effectively barring him from continuing down the lane. He looked down at her with a mixture of amusement and perplexity.
“I am glad I’m able to provide you with the day’s entertainment,” she said, “but before we continue to the man’s house, I insist on a full explanation of what you intend to do. I have been content with limited information when my own safety was in question, but I see no reason such reticence should be necessary now.”
“No matter,” said Holmes. “It’s just that I had anticipated the value of having someone with me who is less knowledgeable and therefore likely to perform naturally.”
Irene sniffed. “Holmes, your powers of manipulation grow ever larger with each passing day. Dr Watson credits you with a straightforwardness that you begin to lack. Perhaps I should tell the poor man to watch out for your machinations.” She spit out the words with great pique, but as she did so, she moved out of the way and allowed the detective to continue walking.
“I take it you agree to leave me to my methods,” said the detective mildly.
“I wish I didn’t trust you as much as I do,” said The Woman. “I will consent to be the ignorant partner. Do you have anything you wish me to say or do?” As much as she tried to seem resigned, she was, he thought, also filled with a conspiratorial sense of excitement.