Repeat Business

by Lyn McConchie

  “The hiding place was not an item of furniture—although all rooms have them; it is an item which is seen by all and yet never noticed. It was the door. When I studied Mr. Hector’s furniture in the attic, I observed that the seats of two of the chairs were slightly scratched in a pattern of the sort a man might make by standing upon them regularly. Why would a man stand upon his chair but to reach something, and what was within that room which might be reached only by standing on a chair? I entered the room and studied the question that led me to the answer that it could be the door that would repay a closer view.

  “To make my story brief, I found that a slot had been drilled from the top of the door to the bottom. It is an old door and is almost two inches thick and of oak, while the cavity takes up only a third of that thickness. It has a plug at both the top and the bottom so that anything dropped in at the top may be removed quite easily from the bottom.” By now they were all agog—but Lord Winchmore was not yet satisfied.

  “But the thief, sir? Who took the pearls?”

  Holmes stood. “In London there are many pitfalls for those who are of trusting disposition and innocent. A trap was laid there for one such person. A friend who discovered this was deeply concerned and wished to save their friend. They acted without thinking, and afterwards could find no way to mend what they had done without disclosing another’s secret. I have laid my hands on the paper that was to be used to blackmail an innocent child and returned it to them. I was engaged to return to you the pearls and to find the thief, and I have done both. Let those responsible tell you of the remainder of the tale.”

  We returned to London and it was not until we were again in our rooms that I asked Holmes the final, and as yet, unanswered question.

  “Who was it, Holmes?”

  “Edward Winchmore. Last season his father permitted Miss Jane to enjoy some of the milder pursuits in London. But unknown to any of her circle she was introduced to a woman whom it was undesirable she should know. At a party the girl was carefully lured to a side room to pay cards with this woman and two others, and there she was cheated of a large sum.”

  “But she would know for what it was she played, surely?”

  “No, it is a trick used on the very innocent. She believed she was playing for only a penny a rubber and for harmless amusement. Once several of the games were completed she was told she had agreed to a penny a point, a very different matter. She was assured by all present that she had agreed to this, and believing herself to have misunderstood and that she owed the debt she gave them an IOU.

  “The sum, however, was more than she could pay from her allowance and they began to press her. In her desperation she confided in Edward, and when Emily dropped her pearls, he seized and hid them, having, I suspect, some vague idea of pawning them to pay off Miss Jane’s debtors and redeeming the pearls later. His father’s prompt action prevented him from doing so, and I obtained the IOU from the ones who had it. I returned it to the child as I approached the door. As Miss Emily told us, her friends are honest and honorable; they will have gone to Lord Winchmore by now and confessed.”

  I know they did so, for Lord Winchmore called on us a week later and confirmed that his son and ward had confessed all to him and been forgiven. So ended the mystery of the stolen pearls, but by that time we were embroiled in another mystery of a different sort—which pleased me, since it is always good that Holmes’ mind should be occupied.

  ON THE CLIFFS

  Holmes had long since been settled into his home on the southern slope of the Sussex Downs, where his cottage had a magnificent view of the Channel in all its moods. I visited him when I could, and was glad that he had made a friend also of Harold Stackhurst, who was the owner and headmaster of a busy establishment that specialized in coaching young men for examinations, only half a mile away. Stackhurst had been the instrument of Holmes having had one interesting case already, and when I was finally able to visit my old friend for several weeks rather than the occasional weekend, Stackhurst was the catalyst for another case which involved me as well.

  It came about thus. It was a particularly fine summer that year of 1912, and it was pleasant to enjoy the fine weather and see Holmes again. We had just finished dinner and settled afterwards, Holmes to his pipe and his thoughts, and myself to the newspaper—which in this area arrives around dinnertime—when there came a brisk knocking at the cottage door.

  A minute later Stackhurst was entering to be warmly greeted by us both. It was clear, however, that he had not come to chat, but instead fidgeted, twiddled his fingers, idly picked up items from the dinner table and replaced then, and in short gave all those signs that a man gives when there is something of major importance on his mind. Holmes was the first to comment on this.

  “My dear Stackhurst. Why do you not discuss the letter you have received?”

  The man sat bolt upright, then began to chuckle. “I should know better than to think there is something that you will not notice, my friend. Yes, I have received a letter. I do not see how it can be correct, nevertheless it has disturbed me.” He looked across to where I held the newspaper to one side as I listened. “You will not mind if I have a problem to offer?”

  I shook my head. “I have heard many problems in my time. Some have been medical puzzles offered to me, but many have been of another sort told to Holmes, and I have always been interested in them. Tell us, Stackhurst; upon my word, I have no objection.”

  “Very well then. As Holmes says, I have received a letter. As he is also aware, my half-sister died nearly a year ago. She was considerably younger than I, and our parents have been dead for some years. Yet I was very fond of her, and if there has been an injustice, I would wish to have it put right. Although,” he added, half angrily, “I cannot see how that could be—since I attended the inquest, and heard both the facts that seemed clear, and the witnesses who appeared honest.”

  Holmes poured him a drink. “Do not distress yourself, my dear fellow. If there is a mystery there, I shall be very happy to look into it, and Watson shall assist me if he has the time.” I nodded, with a pleasurable sense of anticipation, and saw that Holmes noticed it. For an instant his eyes twinkled at me.

  “Come, come, Stackhurst, tell us the problem.”

  “If you are sure then. The letter came yesterday and I have been in some agitation of mind ever since. My sister, Evelyn, was married to Mr. Jacob Ellwood, a man I never quite liked or trusted, and yet I have to admit, never once did I see anything to justify such an attitude. Perhaps I am mean-spirited and misjudged the man because he was a gentleman of leisure. His father had left him with sufficient money that he had no need to work at all—but instead, and for his own satisfaction when in his late twenties, he took the position of part-time librarian to the Duke of Welstead.”

  “That is interesting.” Holmes commented. “Welstead had a fine library with some very old and extremely rare books and papers.” His voice trailed off as he contemplated. I could see there was something more, and I made a tiny motion of my hand to halt Stackhurst before he continued.

  “Ah yes. I recall something of that now.” Holmes said, after a short period of recollection. “Welstead died and his will simply said that he left such of his books and papers to his librarian as the man wished to take. There was something of a fuss about it, since the family objected to the large amount of such items—many of considerable value—that were removed by the beneficiary, but the law and the bequest prevailed.”

  Stackhurst nodded. “Yes, I think that was why I could not like the man. Welstead intended that the bequest should provide only a few items of personal interest to his librarian, of that I am sure. Instead Ellwood took a great number of books and papers and sold them privately, thereby gaining a very considerable sum of money for himself, and angering Welstead’s family, who had to pay high sums to the buyers to regain at least a portion of them. They took it to law, but the will was clear enough and there was nothing the courts could do; the mischief was in the wor
ding used, and Welstead’s lawyer said that it was none of his doing but a codicil added by the old Lord without legal advice.”

  “How long ago did your sister marry the man?” I asked.

  “Almost five years ago. Even had I liked the man, I might well have objected. She was barely twenty-one and he a man in his forties. There was a local man who loved her, a schoolmaster and only a couple of years older than Evelyn. He’d have made her a better husband, I thought, but she was set on Ellwood, who was a good-looking man, and seemed younger than I knew him to be. He was also a man of address and charm, and those qualities, it seemed, were enough for Evelyn.

  “They appeared happy enough; at least I saw no obvious signs of unhappiness when I visited; but then, last year she either killed herself or died from a peculiar misadventure. It was distressing to contemplate, but there were two witnesses who said she ran towards the edge of the cliff without slowing, seemed to slip at the very brink and fell to her death, since the cliff at that point is very high and with rocks below. The body was recovered late the following day.”

  Holmes nodded. “You said to me at the time that the jury had brought in a verdict of misadventure in the end, since she left no suicide note. The letter—from the schoolteacher who loved her perhaps—says that it was otherwise. He believes that her husband murdered her in some way, and would like Ellwood brought to justice?”

  Stackhurst looked exasperated. “He does. He admits he has no proof but he is certain.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I am unable to ascertain from his letter. It merely says that he knew Evelyn; she was neither an unhappy woman nor a careless one.”

  “How well did he know her?”

  “Well enough aside from the affection in which he held her. The village in which they all lived was where my father and Evelyn’s mother moved to live when Evie was about five years of age, and I was already away from home. Young Merrion Hattan’s family have lived in the village all their lives. Evie and he went to the school together, and eventually, after he had trained and studied, he became teacher at the school. Hence he has known her for many years, if you discount the period she was away in London while he was studying to become a teacher.”

  “So he might well consider himself able to say that she was never unhappy or reckless.” Holmes said thoughtfully.

  Stackhurst looked at him sharply. “What, you think there may be something in this after all?”

  “My dear Stackhurst. I would have to look at the events and those involved in them a little more closely, but it is not impossible. By your own account, your sister’s husband has shown himself not to be above twisting the law to his own advantage.”

  “Then will you look into the case officially for me?” Stackhurst looked relieved. “There is a good inn there, The White Swan, where you and Watson could stay, I am prepared to defray expenses for the inn and your travel. If it is you who investigates this, I can be sure that if the letter is wrong you will find that out. If it is not, then I know you would bring the murderer of my sister to justice.”

  Holmes nodded. “I will examine the facts as they present themselves, Stackhurst. Leave your letter with me if you will, and I shall keep you informed.”

  I saw that Stackhurst was glad to be gone after that. I think he felt that he had imposed upon my old friend in some way, but I—who had known Holmes far longer—was aware that the thrill of the chase was on him once more. I said nothing, but watched as he read the letter. When he lifted his head, it was to see me sitting patiently, but with my gaze fixed intently upon him.

  Holmes chuckled softly. “Ah, my dear Watson, you have the look of a gun-dog that is listening for the sound of a gun. Can it be that neither of us is too old for the chase again?”

  I snorted indignantly. “I certainly am not.”

  “Then would you care to accompany me to the village of Lunslea? It is there that we shall find young Hattan, and there are a few questions I would wish to put to him.”

  I stood. “At once, if you wish.”

  Holmes glanced out of the window. “No, it grows late, and I would write tonight to several people who may know something of Ellwood and this Welstead affair. Tomorrow afternoon will do. Stackhurst will be willing to have us driven to the village, I daresay. We’ll walk over to the school once we’ve breakfasted.” We did so, and Stackhurst professed himself very willing to do anything at all that would further our inquiries.

  “Take the pony trap and my man. Keep an account of all it costs you, and you shall be reimbursed as and when you request it of me.” His smile was bitter. “I had planned to leave my estate to Evelyn and to her children after her—had there been any. There were no children and now there will not be. I can afford to spend what I have in pursuit of justice for my sister, if that should be required. The school does well, and I had money from my mother and uncle.”

  A thought occurred to me then. “Did Evelyn have money also?”

  Stackhurst looked surprised. “Yes, but she would not have received it as yet. It came from her mother’s father, who thought that no woman was competent to handle money at any age, and certainly not before her twenty-fifth birthday. Evie was a week short of that when she died, and Ellwood would have received nothing, if that is in your mind?”

  “Who was her lawyer and who, then, would have benefited?” Holmes asked him.

  “I do not know. There were distant cousins; in all likelihood it has gone to them. I never inquired. My step-mother’s lawyers were a London firm, Braithwaite and Carrigan, I seem to recall.” I caught Holmes’ gesture and said no more.

  The journey was pleasant. The day was fine and warm, and there was little wind. We were in the village of Lunslea by lunchtime, and the inn provided us with an excellent meal. Our room was large and airy, being also clean and well-furnished, so that it seemed to me that this case should provide a pleasant interlude for my old friend and me, and it was very good to be hunting again with him. I said nothing of that thought, however, since my contentment was based upon the death of the sister of Holmes’ friend.

  Holmes went to the inn’s writing room that evening and wrote busily, to Miss Evelyn’s lawyers, he said, when I asked. He also excited the inn’s landlord and other staff considerably by receiving several phone calls from London—an unusual event in Lunslea. I retired to bed with a new book from a writer I enjoy, a man named Haggard, leaving Holmes to write on. I slept well and we rose together to eat a plentiful and well-cooked breakfast.

  In a small village it is never difficult to find the one you seek and the day was a Sunday, on which there was no school. So it was that by mid-morning Merrion Hattan had come in answer to our request that we see him, and was seated in the private parlor with us. He was a stocky fellow of some twenty-seven years, his features undistinguished and his hair and eyes of a medium brown. But his clothing, while plain, was clean and of good quality, and I noted—as I knew Holmes did also—the keen intelligence which shone in his gaze.

  Merrion Hattan nodded in reply to my question. “Indeed, I wrote to her brother. I have never believed that Evelyn died from some foolish accident. Still less do I believe that she killed herself. I should say at the outset, sirs, that while a schoolmaster at a village school is normally a man who is rich in little but learning and pupils, still I am not so poor as you might suppose.”

  “No,” said Holmes. “You invented an improvement to the reaping and binding system for corn, and four years ago you sold it to Smith and Walland.”

  Hattan nodded. “That is so. My uncle has a large farm and I was always about it as a boy. As a young man I read much on the earlier machines made, and one day it came to me that if a small alteration was made, the corn could be more easily and cheaply harvested. I took my idea to the firm you named, that also saw it as a valuable idea. They took it up and paid me generously. I have no need of their money, since although my salary is modest, a house comes with my employment and I have no expensive vices. I invested the firm’s payment t
o me on good advice from my uncle, and ever since it has grown without my attention.”

  He stared at us. “I am willing to spend it all, every penny, if you can prove that Evelyn was murdered and lay hands upon her killer.”

  Holmes looked sternly at him. “And if I investigate, Mr. Hattan, and find that she was not, what then?”

  “Then I shall sleep easier in my bed, sir. I shall have done all that I could and I have heard of you, I know that what you discover is the truth.”

  I saw the slight gratified gleam in my friend’s eyes. It was no doubt pleasant for him to reflect that, after his years in retirement, still his name and reputation were known and honored by a younger generation.

  “Tell me about Evelyn and Ellwood,” he said quietly.

  “Ellwood is one of those suave charming men whom women dote upon and few men can stand to have about them,” Hattan said, with both a cynicism and knowledge of human nature surprising to me.

  “He moved to the village after he inherited money from the Duke of Welstead, although I had it from Evelyn that he was not a poor man even before that. He courted her and she believed all he said, while he also charmed her mother, her father having died some years earlier. I believe her brother, Mr. Stackhurst, did not like Ellwood either—but Evelyn had her way, and with her mother’s permission she married Ellwood and they appeared happy enough. Indeed, Evelyn told me in confidence that they were writing a book together.”

  “On what subject?” I asked.

  “Of that I have no knowledge, save that Evelyn laughed and said it should astonish me, for I little knew how even in my own countryside there were strange happenings. I assumed it to be some book of rural curiosities such as two-headed chickens or supposed visitations from the devil, and thought no more on it.”

  “But Miss Evelyn seemed happy?”