by Amy Thomas
“I would like to propose a toast,” I said after a while, “to our friends, who helped us solve the case.”
“The credit goes to Mr Holmes, surely,” said Edith.
“In this instance, I believe Mr Holmes is happy to share it with all of you.” I couldn’t help the slight smirk that reached my face when I looked across the table at my friend.
“Certainly,” he said. “You have all been exceedingly helpful.” He was relaxed, I could see, far more so than he had been since his arrival in the village.
“To all of us, then,” said the vicar, and we drank. As I looked around the table at the strange assortment of people I’d collected, the warmth I felt surprised me. For the years I had been in Fulworth, I had kept mostly to myself, only coming to know people as I encountered them in my official capacity as musician or in my daily errands.
The trust Edith Phillimore and Julia Rayburn, even Julia’s husband, had placed in me during the case had proven to me that I had not made as little impression on the village as I’d supposed. Holmes was fond of saying that when one gets rid of the impossible, whatever remains must be true, no matter how difficult to believe. It was now impossible for me to believe that I meant nothing to the village of Fulworth, and it had begun to seem as if, no matter how much I might deny it to myself, the truth was that Fulworth was also important to me. Perhaps, I thought, I needed people after all.
***
The late hour meant that the guests were not inclined to linger. The vicar left first, with many expressions of thanks and good will, to return home, where he cared for his ailing mother. Edith soon made to follow, and she went to retrieve her sleeping offspring, who waved to us all from her mother’s shoulder and smiled as if she’d never had a care in the world. Simms would have stayed to eat and drink all night, I believe, except that the family for whom he worked kept strict hours, and he did not wish to upset them. He kissed my hand as he left, slightly overcome by the atmosphere and his overconsumption of my highest quality wine, opened especially for the occasion.
Finally, Julia and Edward were the only ones left, and it was obvious that neither wanted to be the first to leave, for which I was glad. “Julia,” I said as we sat together on the sofa, “I am curious if you know more about the case than I do. I understand who is responsible, but I don’t know how it was done.”
Julia looked around at the small, informal gathering sitting on sofa and chairs pulled from the table to accommodate our extra visitors. It was just me, Holmes, Watson, and Edward to listen to her now, and I saw a decision cross her face.
“I expect everyone here already knows my - situation, since you have all been assisting the police. I believe it will be good for me to tell what I know, and it’s the least I can do. The police were able to piece together most of what happened from the stories of the two women and the doctor.” I patted her hand as if I was her aged grandmother. I couldn’t help myself. Meanwhile, Edward watched her with one of the most intense gazes I have ever seen coming from anyone other than Sherlock Holmes.
“As you know, Miss Adler,” she said, looking at me as if for support, “I have an unusual relationship with the servants at my childhood home. I think, perhaps, you did not think my behaviour was entirely wise, and experience bears you out. One of them, I don’t know which, saw me speaking with James Phillimore outside the servants’ entrance to the house. The encounter so inflamed her with curiosity that she followed us and found out that we - the character of our relationship.” I shuddered internally at the implication, and Edward Rayburn looked as if he was in pain so acute he could no longer keep it from showing on his honest face.
“This person,” Julia continued, “had a friendship with Mrs Merriwether at Oakhill Farm, and she took the tale to that lady, who was furious on account of her love for Edith Phillimore, whom she saw as a wronged woman. She’s the one who told Dr Clarke.” I had been listening intently, but this piece of information piqued my interest in the extreme. Now, I thought, we would find out if Holmes was correct in his surmise that Phillimore’s murder had had something to do with Julia Rayburn.
Julia took a sip of her drink and waited a moment to continue. “I don’t suppose it should bother me to tell the rest,” she said, “since I’ve no reputation left anyway, but it still pains me to say. When I first returned from school, I noticed that Dr Clarke paid special attention to me. I thought it was just the affection of an old man, since he had always been fond of me when I was a child. However, before James had even spoken to me, the doctor approached me after church. He was a widower, he said, but he wanted - someone to share his life again, perhaps to give him the family in his old age that the wife of his youth had not been able to produce. You may imagine the effect of his words. I felt dreadful and filled with pity that I couldn’t entirely conceal. As gently as I could, I told him that I did not consider myself equal to what he asked. I was barely past being a child, I said, and couldn’t think of fulfilling his request. A month later, he asked again. That time, I told him more strongly that while I respected him, I did not care for him in that way. He never spoke to me again.”
“I never told my father or anyone else because I wanted to spare the man’s feelings, but his attentions had not gone entirely unnoticed. I did not know it then, but Mrs Parkfield was aware of his regard for me, and she was angry because she had long dreamed of becoming the second Mrs Clarke. She, too, was friends with Mrs Merriwether, who seems to have been apprised of any and all gossip among servants in the area. Mrs Parkfield told her friend what Dr Clarke’s intentions were toward me.”
“Mrs Merriwether held onto the information, as she must have held on to all sorts of scandal and gossip that might be embarrassing or damaging to a great many people. When she heard about James and me, she decided to make use of the knowledge. She went to Dr Clarke under guise of subservient friendship and told him that the object of his affection was being tampered with.” Julia said this last part as if it was difficult for her to form the words.
“She had judged her man accurately. I had thought Dr Clarke had accepted my choice as a gentleman, but he was secretly obsessed. I have heard it said that he was possessive and unusually jealous where his first wife was concerned, but I was too young then to know for sure. In the months since I’d refused him, he’d grown increasingly unbalanced, and Mrs Merriwether only had to push him slightly to get him to act. She didn’t intend to push him into murder, or so she claims. She only wanted Phillimore to leave so that she could convince Edith to rid herself of him. She suggested blackmail.”
I looked at Holmes, who was as intent on the story as I was. “The blackmail was real, then.”
“Yes,” said my friend. “It was simply the subject that Phillimore fabricated.”
“Clarke told him he must leave the village, or all would be known,” said Julia.
“Not about money, then,” Holmes murmured. “I thought that was the least plausible part of Edith’s story.”
“According to Mrs Merriwether,” Julia continued, “Phillimore sent a letter to Clarke agreeing to leave, and then, of course, he convinced his wife to help him, with the object of rejoining him later. The cook thought she could dissuade Edith from this once she disclosed the truth. Clarke, however was not satisfied with the man merely leaving Fulworth.”
“He had - seen what my husband saw. After all, he has been a doctor for many years, and he watched me. He began to suspect the truth about the baby, and it filled him with jealousy. On the pretext of making Phillimore prove that he was actually leaving, he asked for the particulars of the man’s plan. Phillimore, who was terrified that his actions would become known and that he would lose his wife and daughter, complied.”
“On the day of my wedding,” she said, pausing a moment and breathing heavily, “husband and wife followed the plan to the letter. James went inside to fetch his umbrella and never came back. Edith followed, but sh
e did not look through the house, since she knew her husband was simply lying in wait. They had arranged for the property to be deserted after Edith’s departure, so James lingered and then made his escape.”
“Dr Clarke was aware of the details of the plan, so he had already circulated the information that he was laid up with gout and would be unable to attend the wedding. He and Mrs Parkfield waited for James on the road outside the village, and they drugged him and brought him back to Clarke’s house, where they kept him sedated for several days. The doctor, of course, has access to all manner of drugs.”
“Mrs Merriwether faked the posting of the rabbit both ways. She apparently tried to extricate herself when Clarke told her that he had kidnapped Phillimore instead of letting him leave as they’d agreed, but he threatened to bring her down with him if she did not do as he asked.”
“Finally, when the police had begun to talk about ending the investigation because of insignificant evidence, Clarke shot James. I do not - I do not know exactly how or where he did it. The police believe he took him out on the Downs.”
“Horrible,” I said.
“Yes,” said Julia. “I would not have wished such an end on him.”
“Clarke was then,” she added, “faced with the task of what to do with the body. He was highly unbalanced by this time, and he wanted to display what he had done as revenge against the man he believed had stolen the woman he loved. He could not contrive a way to do it himself, so he called on Mrs Merriwether again. This time, she claims, she very nearly refused, but she was terrified that Clarke would convince the police that she had killed Phillimore, since the plot had originated with her. Of course, Clarke would probably have gotten away with it if he’d just discarded the corpse somewhere on the Downs, but he could not be satisfied with that.”
“The night before the body was found, Mrs Merriwether went to Clarke’s house in her husband’s wagon. Mrs Parkfield helped her load Phillimore’s corpse into it, covered by a blanket and then various edibles, so that if pressed, she could claim she was taking supplies back for the big house.”
“She had told her husband that Edith Phillimore wished her to remain at the house later than usual, so under cover of night, she placed the body on the carriage and then went home and to bed. Clarke had told her that the police would never suspect that a woman had done it, which was true. Only one as strong as she is could have managed it, aided by the fact that James was a slight man.”
“Mrs Merriwether received quite a turn the next morning when Edith Phillimore told her the body had been found by Eliza. She’d hoped that the location of the carriage house would lead to its being found by one of the men and that Warren would be suspected. She convinced Edith, who was shocked and fearful because of her own duplicity, that it would be better to wait and let him be found by someone else, which soon happened.”
“There you have it,” said Julia, sitting back wearily. I almost laughed. It was such an oddly anticlimactic end to a tale of horror. We sat silently for a few moments, thinking about the ending of a man’s life and the sad circumstances that had led him to it, not that none of them were of his own making - far from it.
After a while, Dr Watson rose, rubbing his eyes. “Thank you for enlightening us so fully,” he said to Julia. “Forgive me, Miss Adler,” he continued, “but I must retire, or I will be snoring into my cups.” I nodded and stood up, and Holmes and the Rayburns followed suit. “I’d better go, too,” said Julia.
“Jule,” said Edward, and he put out a tentative hand to touch her hair. She flinched. I gave Holmes and Watson meaningful looks, and they disappeared into their rooms. I, too, retired, but instead of disappearing altogether, I sneaked into the shadows of the hallway and ducked behind the chaise longue with my head just peeking up enough to see what took place. I am not proud of this, but I’m not terribly sorry, either. I simply could not resist.
“Where are you going?” Edward asked, once they were alone.
“I’ll stay one more night with my father and mother and then leave for London tomorrow.”
“Do I get no say?” he asked desperately. “I feel - the same for you that I’ve always felt.”
“How is that possible, Ed?” she asked. “Do you understand what this means? I courted you on purpose just so I could marry you quickly and cover my shame. I used your love for me as a means to an end.” She spoke vehemently, as if she was determined to condemn herself as fully as possible.
“I know all that, Jule,” he answered, “but I think you love me. Look at me and say you don’t.”
She made a valiant effort, and I was afraid that if she succeeded, she might very well have gotten her way that night. As it was, she couldn’t meet his eyes and tell the lie. “I can’t,” she said in a short, brittle voice.
“I thought not,” he said, sounding more hopeful.
“What is the matter with you?” Julia asked. “I’m carrying a dead man’s baby.”
“It could be our baby,” he said.
“Are you insane?” she asked. “You know what they’ll say about us, about you.”
“I don’t care,” he answered calmly.
“Why?” she asked, finally exploding. “I’m not worth this, Ed. I’ve never been worth all of your love and faithfulness and kindness.” She spit out the words as if they were pejorative rather than complimentary. “I’ve never done anything but stomp on them.”
“But you love me, Jule,” he said. “Can’t you see it in yourself? You love me so much it’s nearly killing you to let me go.” His eyes shone with tears.
Julia let out a pained cry and buried her face in her hands, though she did not weep. She simply stood silent and refused to look at her husband. “Why?” she finally said. “Why must you be so right and know everything?”
“I know you,” he said. “That’s all.”
“I want you to love someone else,” she said stubbornly.
“I’ve never loved anybody else,” he said. Julia turned away.
Edward cried. I have seen men cry for effect, and I have seen them cry like lost children. He did neither. He cried like someone who hurts so deeply for another that the pain cannot be contained.
“Ed - stop,” said Julia, finally sounding desperate instead of resigned. “I can’t bear it.”
“Do you think I can bear it?” he asked, talking to her back. “Do you think I can stand to watch you sacrifice yourself, alone without anyone to help you? We can live like brother and sister if you wish it. I will give up every other dream I’ve ever had if you’ll just let me take care of you and the baby.”
For a long, horrendous moment, I was afraid that Julia was going to run away. Her internal conflict was excruciatingly visible, but Edward was wise enough to let her make the decision on her own terms. She finally crumbled, collapsing into herself and sobbing so hard she bent double. The farmer recognised her choice for what it was, and he came to her in an instant, catching her and pulling her close. “I’ve got you,” was all he said, but in spite of his tears, he looked happier than I had ever seen him. He held her for a long time, only stopping when her sobs subsided, and even then, he only let go so that he could take out a red handkerchief and wipe away her final tears. His wife, in her turn, took the piece of cloth from him and wiped his face.
“Julia,” he said, cupping her face in one of his broad hands, “will you really come home with me?”
“If you want me to,” she said.
“I want - I want you to come home more than I ever wanted anything in my whole life,” he answered, and I was afraid they were both in danger of weeping again. Instead, Edward put a big arm around Julia’s shoulders and led her out into the night.
I watched the Rayburns leave my cottage with no idea what lay in store for their future. I have not always been a hopeful person, but I hoped for them. Julia did not deserve Edward after ever
ything she had done to him, but, as I pondered then, life would be a terrible thing if we all received our just deserts. Holmes would disagree on principle, I thought, but that would make him the greatest of hypocrites. He was, after all, the man who had given a cottage to his enemy and made her his friend.
They can go everywhere, see everything, overhear everyone.
- The Sign of Four
Chapter 18: Holmes
The detective slept all night, finally giving his body the rest it craved. When he awoke, he realised it was late morning, and he heard the voices of The Woman and the doctor in the main part of the house.
“Good morning, Holmes,” said Irene when he emerged. She looked fresh and rested, though he knew that the case had taken a toll on her as well, a toll that was now evaporating in the aftermath of success. The detective sat down beside her at the table and proceeded to avail himself of the large brunch Mrs Turner had provided. Far from being averse to a good meal, he simply found food a largely irrelevant distraction when a case was on. Now, he was free to fill his stomach.
His mind, however, was not entirely engaged in pleasant matters, and he sank into silence as he pondered his failure to put together the details that had implicated Dr Clarke as quickly as he believed he should have done. He had seen the tobacco and the man; that should have been enough, without the kidnapping to serve as a catalyst.
“You are very quiet, Holmes,” said Watson after a while. The detective was surprised his flatmate had noticed, so taken up as he seemed with watching Mrs Turner bring food and drinks back and forth from the kitchen. “I’d have expected,” the doctor continued, “to hear about Brahms or Greek sculpture or some other obscure topic.”
“Brahms is hardly obscure,” said Irene, and the detective cast an approving eye on her.