Holmes said nothing, but signalled his assent with a nod and went back to his reading.
Time seemed to settle in the room like the fog itself. I read absent-mindedly in a lady’s novel that had been sitting on the table. A maid brought coffee and sandwiches and wine, lit the lamps, and laid a fire in the sitting room.
Soon thereafter, Dr Silbermann arrived to examine Miss LaFreniere. He emerged from the bedroom, trailed by Fanny and Antonia and looking sober. “It’s the end,” he told them. “With luck, she won’t wake up, but if she does and is in pain, give her some laudanum. God bless you both,” he said, and was gone—home to wife and children, perhaps, or to dinner and good wine with his friends.
At Fanny’s urging, Antonia sipped at some coffee and picked apart, rather than ate, a sandwich, and then returned to her chair in the bedroom. Fanny remained in the sitting room, but near enough to the bedroom door that she would hear any change in Josette’s breathing. Revived by meat and drink and the warmth of the fire, I decided to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the sick room and, with a whispered word to Fanny, left to wait downstairs.
Almost imperceptibly, the evening turned into night. Mrs Paxton came into the parlour, trimmed the lamp, bade us good night, and retired to her apartment in the back of the house. The coal fire in the grate burned low.
I grew tired, but could not sleep for my own coughing and thoughts of the scene upstairs. I felt that if I walked out into the street I would see Death beneath the low clouds, brooding over the house and enfolding it, and all of us, in its dark, sheltering wings.
Every hour or so, restless, I lit a candle and climbed the stairs, to look in on Fanny and Holmes. I could hear poor Josette’s harsh breathing and see Antonia seated next to the bed, her bent head silhouetted in the light of the bedside lamp. Fanny looked steadfast and tired. Holmes looked inscrutable.
The twilight of morning was starting to fill the rooms of the house with a dim, underwater light, when Fanny came quietly downstairs and whispered that the ordeal was over at last. We awakened Weston, who had fallen asleep on the parlour sofa, and Fanny said to him, “Mr Holmes said to send for the police van.”
I followed Fanny back upstairs to the rooms. Through the bedroom door I could see Josette’s body, as still as a sculpture on a tomb. She was laid out in a fresh dress of some light colour, her hair carefully arranged. Antonia, pale and red-eyed, was in the outer room, sitting at the table with Holmes.
“There was no one else,” I heard her say to him, “just me. Even Josette didn’t know where I got the money.”
“Where is the money?”
“In the valise in the bedroom.” Her face was without expression, her voice lifeless. “Everything’s there except what I spent. None of it matters now.” She looked around at Fanny and me, and then again at Holmes, and asked, “Is it time to go?”
“When the van comes, yes,” Holmes said.
“We’ll call the undertaker,” Fanny said. “Everything will be taken care of.”
Antonia nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “May I sit with her until we have to leave?”
Holmes nodded, and Antonia walked into the bedroom, bent down and kissed Josette’s forehead, and took her seat in the chair next to the bed.
In a half hour or so, Mary knocked on the door and told Holmes that the van was waiting. Antonia appeared at the bedroom door, in a hat and shawl.
She stood a little straighter and squared her shoulders. “All right, I’m ready.”
She left the room with Holmes, and a minute later, Weston came in and took the valise. Fanny and I went downstairs and asked Mrs Paxton to send for the undertakers and a cab, and retreated to the parlour to wait.
The morning sun, though it shown bright outside, had not yet taken the chill from the room. Fanny curled against me and shivered slightly. “Are you all right?” I asked her.
“Yes, just tired.”
I put my arm around her and held her close, and as I did, remembered again the long, cold weeks so far from home, when Fanny had held me as I coughed blood, or hurried to my bedside as I wakened from a fevered sleep, her anxious eyes looking into mine. I thought how tired and despairing she must have felt then, when it seemed more than I could do to keep on with life at all.
The newspapers quickly caught wind of the case, and for the next few days, the Call and the Bulletin carried front-page stories of “Russian Annie, The Fair Desperado” and the “Parlour House Road Agent,” with lurid engravings depicting the robbery of the stage and Antonia’s arrest. Holmes was mentioned as a private detective whose fortuitous presence on the stagecoach had brought him into the case and led to the apprehension of the “beautiful bandita.”
With Mrs Paxton’s help, Fanny made arrangements for Josette to be buried in one of the cemeteries at the edge of town. On the day of her funeral, I was too ill to go out, but Fanny and Mrs Paxton rode behind the hearse and paid their last respects, with a small crowd of onlookers, as the girl was laid to rest.
When I was recovered enough to see visitors again, Mr Holmes came by to wish us farewell. Fanny had been dowie and peevish that morning, worrying about my health, the journey, and the fateful meeting with my parents.
I had dismissed her fears. She had called me heartless, and we had quarrelled. When Holmes arrived, we were sorting books in wounded silence. With an effort, we put on company faces, offered him the sofa, and seated ourselves on a couple of chairs.
He told us Antonia had pled guilty to the robberies and would probably be sentenced to several years in the women’s prison. “Most of the stolen money was accounted for,” he said, “though I understand that Miss LaFreniere had quite an elegant funeral.” He turned to Fanny, who met his look unflinchingly.
After he had left, I asked Fanny what Holmes had meant by his remark. “Did she give you money?”
She paused over the box of books she was packing. “Yes. She paid for the funeral, and for a plot in the cemetery and a headstone, so Josette wouldn’t have to be buried in the potter’s field.”
“With money from the robberies?” I asked, knowing what the answer was.
She turned on me a look like the sighting of a pistol. “Do you care?” she asked. Her anger receded as quickly as it had risen, and a shadow of sadness darkened her face. She looked at the book in her hand, as if retrieving a memory, and then said quietly, “They were all alone, so far away from home. Somebody had to do something.”
THE DEAD HOUSE, by Bruce Kilstein
My longtime friend, colleague and confidant, Dr John H. Watson, has been both my chronicler and steadfast champion in his accounts of my, or I should say our, investigations into matters of crime and intrigue. I fear that his versions of events perhaps overstate my abilities and accomplishments to the reading public. I have, however, been remiss in paying him the proper tribute he has ably earned as my assistant. Many are the times that he has proved essential in the successful prosecution of an investigation.
I pause here, years later, to relate my dear friend’s role in the events concerning Captain Sidney Emmet-Jones.
It was spring of 18__ and Watson and I struggled to fend off the torpor of inactivity brought about by the seasonal rains that confined our bodies to our digs at 221B Baker Street and the lack of any stimulating work to unfetter our minds. Watson made the occasional trip to his surgery to tend to the odd patient, while I tried to busy myself in the preparation of a monograph concerning the fascinating new science of fingerprinting. The theory being that the ridges and whorls on the pads of each person’s fingers are unique, I set about the task of attempting a system of classification unique to the criminal class.
I soon wearied of the painstaking process and turned my attentions from the magnifying lens to the chemistry bench, for the purposes of maintaining a keen edge of observational power, to distil the essence of Erythroxylum truxillense in preparation of a seven-percent solution.
Watson had just come in from the rain followed by the angry shouts of our hous
ekeeper admonishing him for tracking mud into the vestibule.
“No sign of this bloody weather easing up, Holmes,” he said.
I grunted little reply, too absorbed in my task.
He approached and began his usual litany of disapproval of my present endeavour. I was spared the lecture and subsequent argument when something at the window diverted my attention.
“Watson,” I interrupted, “what do you make of that woman getting out of the coach?”
He approached the window and after a moment’s contemplation stated, “Hard to say, Holmes, as she is obscured by the umbrella. I should guess her to be of some advanced age, as she requires the aide of a cane and the assistance of her driver. Other than that, I cannot hazard much else. You, no doubt, would deduce much more from this scene.”
“Quite,” I replied. “Observe her awkward way of coordinating the use of both umbrella and walking stick, which suggests a recent injury rather than a long-term infirmity. Her dress is mourning, which would hint at a recent loss, but note the stylish cut of her robe even in time of bereavement. This is a younger woman of some means as we see that she has the best clothing, servants, and a handsome coach-and-four.
“Note how her servants are attentive, but she graciously hesitates in accepting their assistance. This would suggest that those in her employ like her. A kind woman, I should think. Moreover she is left-handed as she favours the left for support of the body by the cane, has been feeling weak and eaten little the past few days, evidenced by the pallor of her cheek and slight tremor and hesitancy of her progress. She has, no doubt, suffered some recent shock and visits us for some assistance with a problem. We add the sum of these trifling observations with the obituary section of today’s Times and we must necessarily conclude that we are about to be visited by the widow of the late Captain Emmet-Jones.”
“Astounding, Holmes!” Watson cried as we watched the subject of our deductions exit her ride and make her way to our door. “How do you do it?”
I took pause, relishing the moment of anticipation before some matter of particular challenge and welcomed any chance to dispel the insidious boredom.
“Elementary, my dear fellow.” I referred Watson to the brief account describing the strange death of Captain Sidney Emmet-Jones in the morning Times and rang for my housekeeper. She appeared immediately, apparently already on her way to my rooms to complain about my partner’s effluvia in the foyer.
I stopped her with a “Yes, of course we will be more careful, Mrs Hudson, but presently we are about to receive a very distraught young widow who deserves our hospitality. Please prepare tea and brandy and show her to our study immediately.”
With the ring of the doorbell she was off to her task with no more mention of the Doctor’s indiscretion.
“What do you make of this, Holmes?” Watson asked, turning from the paper.
“We shall soon learn more details, but I suspect foul doings. We must tread lightly.”
Barely had we time to stoke the fire and made a token attempt to make our surroundings presentable, each silently acknowledging Mrs Hudson’s observation that we ought to be tidier, when she returned to announce the subject of our speculation.
“Are you Mr Sherlock Holmes?” asked the young lady, rather timidly.
“At your service. Allow me to introduce my colleague, Dr Watson. Watson, Mrs Emmet-Jones.”
“How is it you already know my name?” the woman gasped in surprise. “Have we previously made acquaintance?”
“No, my dear, but had we, the pleasure would indeed have been mine. I surmised your identity after reading the account in the morning paper. But you are cold. Won’t you take a seat by the warm fire and partake of a refreshment?”
Watson helped her to a chair and poured her a restorative draught, which she willingly accepted, while I filled a fresh pipe.
After she had time to settle, I said, “Pray, tell us your concerns. Leave nothing out. You may speak freely before Dr Watson.”
“Thank you, Mr Holmes. The police do not seem to be of much help and I have no one else to whom I can turn for advice in this matter. The papers did not tell half the story.” She paused and sipped her drink. Staring at the fire, she continued. “I had been wed to my husband just six months after his return from military service in South Africa. He having no relations, we came to live with my father at Dunmore, our family estate in Surrey. At all times he seemed in the most robust of health. He had no immediate complaints of illness in the time just prior to the day we found him on the floor of his study.
“As you can imagine, we were all quite shocked. Hardly had we time to grasp the sudden gravity of the situation, when the Doctor arrived and pronounced the situation contagious and ordered an immediate internment. Something about a fever brought from Africa. We were naturally confused, but of course agreed.”
“Who is the attending physician to your family?” Watson asked.
“Dr Sheridan, but …”
“Charles Sheridan,” Watson interjected. “Good man. Top notch. But surely he would have requested an autopsy in so sudden a death in a young man.”
“I believe you were about to add something, Mrs Emmet-Jones,” I stated.
“Yes. While Doctor Sheridan has been our physician for many years, it was Dr Knox who made the pronouncement and ordered the swift burial.”
“And where did this Knox come from?”
“He was a friend of my husband’s from the service. He must have been on his way to visit because he appeared before we had time to send for Dr Sheridan.” She then lost composure and it took us several minutes and a bit more of the brandied tea until she was able to continue.
Once she had gathered strength I asked, “Clearly the misadventure did not end with the funeral?”
“No. It was after that the real horror began. At Sidney’s funeral my father had occasion to discuss events with Dr Sheridan.”
“Good man,” Watson reiterated.
“So,” I continued, referring to the account in the paper, “it was Dr Sheridan who ordered the body, and excuse my lack of a better word, exhumed?”
“Yes, that is correct. The process took several days, what with the legal paperwork required. Some days later, we were obliged to assemble again at the graveside to relive the ordeal. A smaller group this time. Just my father, Dr Sheridan and the inspector from Scotland Yard.”
“Was this Dr Knox not in attendance?” Watson inquired.
“No, Doctor. He could not be located. Sidney never noted his address and no residence or address of his surgery could be found. Perhaps he had not time to set one up since his return from South Africa.”
I paced the room, anticipating what was to come next. “And what did you find upon opening the grave?”
“Nothing, sir,” she replied quietly. “Sidney was gone.”
The blood ran from Watson’s face. Aghast, all he could do was echo the word, “Gone.”
“Yes. He was apparently the victim of grave robbers. The inspector said that this happens, not infrequently, to graves of the upper classes. Robbers looking for booty buried with the deceased. He said that with no body and no evidence, there was nothing left to investigate. There were no clues.”
“Grave robbing, indeed,” I said. ‘You no doubt fainted at the revelation from the grave and sustained an injury to your ankle. The inspector’s name would not have been Lestrade?”
“Why, yes on both counts, Mr Holmes. You astonish me.”
“We are well acquainted with the inspector’s credentials,” I let slip with a measure of sarcastic contempt. “No clues? Why your story today is nothing if not a cornucopia of clues.” I helped her from her chair and again rang for Mrs Hudson and escorted her to the door. “Do not fret. I feel we will be able to shed some light on this dark business. We should like to pay you and your father a visit at Dunmore and have a look about. We should also wish to visit the gravesite.”
“I would be most grateful to you both. I shall make the arrang
ements for your arrival.”
After she had been escorted from our rooms by Mrs Hudson and we were sure she was out of earshot, I asked, “Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”
“Dastardly, Holmes. Grave robbers? In these modern times? But what can we do? The body has been snatched.”
“Maybe. I fear, however, that there may be more to this story than a simple robbery. I ask you, would mere ruffians, intent on gaining some quick profit from the spoils of a newly interred occupant, take the time to replace the dirt from the disturbed grave and leave the site tidy enough so as to avoid the arousal of suspicion until the grave was re-opened by the authorities?”
“I hadn’t thought of that, Holmes.”
“No, this was no mere crime of opportunity. This goes deeper and speaks of some motive more sinister. Gather your kit for travelling, Watson. Some sturdy boots and slicker, a torch and a stiff walking staff. Your revolver, too, I should think.” He stared at me for a moment while I consulted my Beekman’s timetable to check on the next train from Waterloo station to Surrey.
I took a final draw on my pipe and through the smoke I confirmed his suspicion, “Yes, Watson, the game is afoot.”
* * * *
I remained silent for most of the trip to Dunmore. I smoked quietly and watched the damp countryside pass by as I contemplated the facts of the case. Watson, having worked long enough at my side by then, knew to keep his council at such times, respecting the need for introspection. As we had booked the last private car from Waterloo Station, he passed the time cleaning his service revolver, which had not seen action in some time.
We arrived at our destination southwest of the city, in the late afternoon. Lord Hemming, the father of the widow Emmet-Jones, had sent his coach ahead to convey us to Dunmore.
Phelps, his butler, received us at the hall. “Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” he said. “Lord Hemming is expecting you and requests your presence to tea in the study.” He took our overcoats and escorted us through the lavish estate.
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