I too had given some thought to Galloway while I waited for my release. That he was a violent man was beyond dispute. That he was a callous killer I had seen for myself. But he was fiercely loyal to his own – as loyal to his men, in fact, as Major McLachlan was to his. How many of us would have chosen the noose over the betrayal of our friends? I hoped that I would if it came to it, but still I preferred not to be put to the test. And he had killed the man who murdered Hardie – the very task I had promised I would do myself. In extremis, were we so different?
I decided not to dwell on the question. Besides, I had others to put to Holmes.
“It would certainly appear that every mystery raised by Holloway Prison has now been neatly put to bed, but I do wish, on a personal level, that we had been able to shed more light on the murder which placed me there in the first place.”
I hoped that I did not sound as though I were accusing Holmes of failure, for I was sure that he had done more than any other living man could have, but even so, I could not keep a note of disappointment from my voice. Holmes at once picked up on my tone.
“I can only apologise, Watson. It pains me greatly that on the one occasion when you most had need of my deductive and analytical powers, I failed you. Worse, in my hunger to discover the answer, I was forced to abandon you for the past week, when I should have been at your side. You were almost killed because I chose to follow a barren trail. I would never have forgiven myself if my negligence had led to your death.”
“But it did not,” I pointed out. “You arrived at the most opportune moment! Though I am curious to know exactly where you had been?”
Holmes ground out his cigarette and shook his head. “Nowhere useful, Watson. A blind alley in which I wasted several days to no great purpose.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed. “Rest assured that I will not cease my investigations, but for the moment, there is nothing positive I can tell you.”
I could have pressed him, but he was obviously fatigued (I wondered suddenly if he had slept at all) and had no wish to discuss what he perceived as a failure. I nodded my understanding, and turned the subject to less painful matters. I must be content with my freedom, I thought – twenty-four hours earlier I would have been satisfied with my life, after all.
* * *
A week later, I received official confirmation via Lestrade that no further action would be taken against me in relation to the death of Sarah McLachlan. Major McLachlan was reportedly outraged (I could hardly blame him, in the circumstances) and threatened to bring a private prosecution against me, until Mycroft again intervened. Whatever he said, the major let the matter drop entirely and with nobody else interested in revisiting what had become an extremely embarrassing affair for the government, the death of an elderly lady of uncertain wits quickly faded from the memory of those few who had ever known about it. It was not exoneration, but I told myself it would have to do.
Galloway was hanged for the murder of Isaac Collins just before Christmas, though the trial was little reported. Keegan was sentenced to one year in prison, suspended for two years, and retired to Ireland of all places. In between times, I arranged for Albert Hardie’s body to be interred in a small London graveyard, which I intend to visit each year on the anniversary of his death.
With that, I believed I was done with the whole nightmarish experience. Holmes and I returned to our previous life and were soon caught up in a wide range of cases. I cannot say that the absence of a definitive resolution did not bother me, but I believed I had moved on, and left the McLachlans behind me.
And then one evening more than a year later, as I sat at the table reading over my notes on the affair of the Napoleon busts, and Holmes dozed by the fire, I heard the sound of raised voices from downstairs and the thunder of booted feet running up to our rooms. The door was flung open, exposing a red-faced and panting Lestrade.
“He’s back in the country, Mr. Holmes,” he gasped. “Alistair McLachlan’s come home!”
In an instant, Holmes was transformed. He leapt to his feet and had his coat in hand before I could react. His agitation was something to behold, for all that Lestrade stood in the doorway grinning like the Cheshire cat.
“Come, Watson!” he commanded, but I had now taken a moment to process what Lestrade had said, and I was determined to go no further until I knew exactly where we were going, and why.
“Come where, Holmes?” I snapped. “What interest have any of us in Alistair McLachlan now? Or are we to set off into the night every time a fragment from the unlamented past washes up in England?”
“By no means,” returned Holmes, gathering up my coat and hat and throwing them to me. “But there is more than one fragment of our past in England tonight.”
“How—?” I began, but Holmes was in a fever to be away and had already chivvied Lestrade to the top of the stairs.
“Time is of the essence, Watson. We must not let McLachlan slip away or all is lost!” When he saw I still hesitated, reluctant to open old wounds to no obvious purpose, he went on, “Did I not tell you that I would not cease my investigations until I had solved the case? McLachlan holds the key to the resolution of the murder of his aunt, and your own absolute exoneration! Do not forget your revolver!”
He did not wait for further response from me, but followed Lestrade down the stairs at a run. I pulled on my coat and retrieved my revolver from my room, then raced after him, a wild hope flaring in my breast that I had spent the past year attempting to subdue.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The police carriage in which Lestrade had arrived stood waiting in the road, the horses’ breath steaming in the cold night air. As soon as we were inside, Lestrade poked his head out of the window and ordered the driver to move off.
“You know where to go,” he shouted. “And be quick as you can about it!”
He fell back into his seat as the driver took him at his word, and whipped the horses forward with a jerk. Soon we were thundering through London, then out of the city and into the country. Decent town roads gave way to country lanes and finally rain-sodden tracks, but neither Holmes nor Lestrade would explain where we were going. The most that Holmes would say was that tonight could be the moment at which a conclusion was reached, or it could be the end of any possibility of success. Either way, he asked me to wait until we reached our destination and to trust him that all would be revealed there.
Fortunately, it was not a long journey and, having waited twelve months already – and having given up any hope of resolution – I was able to curb my impatience for the hour it took.
Finally, at five minutes before eleven, we turned onto a dirt track, at the end of which I could see a low farmhouse, and stopped directly behind another police carriage.
“Almost there, Doctor,” said Lestrade with the same grin that he had worn at Baker Street and which had reappeared on his face every time he looked at me. He opened the door and jumped down, before crossing to the other carriage and engaging the driver in conversation.
Holmes also alighted and I followed, so that we stood together in the freezing darkness. Not a sound could be heard but the panting of the horses and the low murmur of Lestrade’s conversation. The only light visible for miles around came from the windows of the farmhouse.
Lestrade concluded his business with the other driver and returned to us, still smiling.
“Our quarry is inside, Mr. Holmes,” he whispered. “Jenkins followed McLachlan here and saw them both at the window not two minutes since.” He gestured to the driver of our carriage. “You and Jenkins go round the back, in case they make a run for it. I don’t expect any rough stuff, but the doctor and I are both armed, if there is. Mr. Holmes,” he said, turning to address my friend, “perhaps it’d be best if I led the way.”
Holmes nodded. Lestrade pulled a pistol from his jacket pocket and held it in front of him as he walked slowly down the path to the farmhouse door, Holmes and I in his wake. The two police drivers quickly split off from our part
y and disappeared into the darkness.
Viewed close up, the farmhouse itself was undistinguished. Single storeyed, it was around thirty feet long, with a shingle roof and a heavy wooden door, bracketed on either side by long, shuttered windows. A small vegetable garden ran along one side with what looked like peas growing in tall rows just visible at the rear. Light shone through the cracks in the shutters on one side of the door.
Lestrade walked up to the door and rapped on it hard with the butt of his revolver. The sound was louder than I expected, but not so loud as to drown out the sounds of surprise from within. I gripped my own weapon more tightly as one of the shutters was pulled slightly open for a second and then as swiftly closed again.
A moment passed, before the door to the farmhouse slowly opened and a figure emerged, lit from behind by lamps hung in what looked like a kitchen.
Alistair McLachlan looked tired. His jacket was crumpled and his eyes dark with shadows. His mouth hung open and he panted slightly as he spoke, as though from exercise, or fright.
“Good evening, Inspector Lestrade. This is an unexpected visit. And Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, too! Quite the party, indeed.” He gave a tiny bow in my direction. “I heard, of course, that you had been released, if not actually acquitted. My congratulations, sir. I did say that I knew you to be innocent, did I not?”
He made no move to invite us in, although a light drizzle had begun to fall. I was puzzled, I admit, that Lestrade did not simply arrest McLachlan where he stood, if he and Holmes were so certain of his guilt, but I had travelled this far based on my trust in my two companions. I was willing to travel a little further.
“What brings you back to England, Mr. McLachlan?” Lestrade asked.
“A family visit, Inspector. I shall be here and gone within a day, I hope.” McLachlan smiled nervously and ran his palm across his thin hair.
“And yet you choose to come straight from the docks to this remote farmhouse? You did not think to stay with your brother in town?”
“He… he does not know I am here. I wished to surprise him. We have been estranged since the death of my aunt, you know,” McLachlan’s voice grew stronger as he continued with more conviction, “but I have reason to believe a reconciliation may be possible.”
Holmes ostentatiously turned up his collar beside me and settled his hat more firmly upon his head. “Might we continue this conversation inside, Mr. McLachlan?” he asked. “I cannot speak for my friends, but I am becoming quite soaked in this rain.”
He took a step towards the door, but McLachlan pulled it close to him. “It is not convenient, I am afraid,” he protested. “I am extremely tired after the voyage from France. I am sure you understand. Perhaps in the morning…?”
Something fell in the shadowed room behind him and we all heard a door open, followed by a muffled exclamation and the sound of the door closing again.
“It would only be for a moment, and only we three, sir,” Lestrade said pointedly. “My men will remain outside, of course.”
He put a hand on the door and began to push it open, while McLachlan attempted to keep it closed with his foot, all the while complaining indignantly. I was about to add my own weight to Lestrade’s when the door was dragged open from inside and a girl stepped into the light.
The girl – a young woman really, now that I saw her more clearly – was the same one who had left me with the corpse of Sarah McLachlan. There was more colour in her cheeks and her hair was darker than I remembered, but there was no mistaking her, even illumined only from behind by lamplight. Nor was there any mistaking the shotgun she held in her hands.
McLachlan took a step back, his face set in a grimace. “Mary…” he said, but the girl gave no sign she had heard him.
“Stay where you are, if you please,” she ordered, allowing the shotgun to weave menacingly in front of her. “There’s nowhere to go, Alistair. They would not be here if they did not know the truth, but I’ll not go anywhere before I’ve had my say.”
The thought crossed my mind that we could potentially disarm her by rushing at her all at once, but before I could make such a suggestion to my companions, Holmes stepped in front of me and addressed the girl in quiet, measured tones.
“You are Mary Parr, I presume?” he began, and though the name seemed familiar, I could not place it exactly. More than one fragment of our past, Holmes had said, but whatever the exact nature of our earlier acquaintance, it remained a mystery to me for now.
The girl nodded sharply. “I am. And if you know my name, you no doubt also recall my sister?”
Something imprecise stirred in my memory. I reached for it, but it slipped away even as I thought I had it.
Holmes obviously knew who she meant, however. He had expected this woman to be here with McLachlan.
“I do indeed. An attractive girl, as I recall, though somewhat unfortunate in her choice of sweethearts.”
Unexpectedly, Mary Parr scowled in my direction as Holmes described her sister. “You may think so, Mr. Holmes,” she countered, switching her gaze to him, “but that says more about you than it does about my sister.”
“Indeed.” Holmes seemed apologetic. He gave no indication that he was even aware of the gun or the fact that Mary Parr held it a scant foot away from his midriff.
“Yes, indeed.” She shifted her feet on the wet ground and took a half step backwards, as though in recognition that Holmes had strayed too close. “But let’s leave that to one side for now. You undoubtedly have questions for me, and I am happy to answer them, where I can. I do not,” she concluded without obvious emotion, “expect to escape the consequences of my actions.”
It was an odd scene altogether. Holmes held his hands behind him, his head cocked slightly to one side, while Mary Parr stood straight-backed three feet or so before him, the two of them as composed as if they had been discussing the weather or tactics for bridge. Lestrade shuffled from one foot to the other at my shoulder, and McLachlan coughed in the silence, but other than that there was no sound in the farmyard. Had it not been for the weapon pointed at us, we might have been visitors stopping for directions to the nearest inn.
Holmes broke the silence almost apologetically. “You do not deny the murder of Sarah McLachlan, then?”
“Would there be any point in denying it? The act is hardly important, only the reasons. But yes, I killed the old lady. She’s been addled in her wits for years, you know. She’s called me her sister before now, when I helped dress her, so it was easy enough to convince her to come with me, even though I’d been away for months. I waited until everyone was out or asleep and let myself in by the kitchen door, then made my way to her room. I knew she’d have been made ready for bed, and right enough, there she was, sitting by her mirror, talking to herself as she often did at night. I told her that we were going on a holiday, a few days away in the town. She was so happy to see me, I thought she might bring someone running, the amount of noise she made.
“I put her good robe on her, and we left the same way I came in, with nobody any the wiser. I’d picked up the knife from the drawer on my way in, alongside a couple of other familiar bits and pieces, and she followed after me like a faithful hound. She’d wandered before, you see. She liked to be outside in the night time. We slipped out the kitchen door and into a cab I’d arranged to collect us, then straight to Grandma’s, simple as that.”
“Once there you murdered her. Though not straight away, I think. You hesitated.”
“No, not straight away. I’d brought along some meringue since it was her favourite, and she was eating it in the bed while I hung the picture and whatnot. And she smiled across at me, and called me a good sister, and I didn’t think I could go through with it. She was a decent sort, really, only unlucky to be so convenient to me right then. But it had to be done. So I sat on the bed and brushed her hair until she was sleeping and then – when I couldn’t see into her eyes any longer – I stabbed her in the chest.”
“Using a rag to stem the initia
l flow of blood?”
“Yes. I kept my coat on, too, as I couldn’t risk getting any on my dress, for fear that Dr. Watson would spot it. But there was more blood than I expected.”
Holmes shrugged. “There always is,” he said simply.
She glanced at Holmes with sadness in her eyes. “She didn’t struggle, but the blood got on my coat, even with the rag. She just lay there with her eyes closed, and her breathing got quieter and then she was gone. I felt her sag under me.”
“The other wounds were post mortem?” Holmes asked. “You administered them after she was already dead?” he clarified, catching the girl’s look of confusion.
“I think so. She twitched a bit at a couple of them, but I couldn’t stop, even if I wanted to. I needed a horror, you see. I wanted nobody to doubt that the killer was a monster.”
“Of course,” said Holmes. “But first there was the murder weapon to discard. You could not leave it in the room. You had intended to take it away with you, but your coat was too bloody to wear.”
She nodded.
“So you stripped a pillow case and used it to slingshot the knife into the scaffolding next door?”
“I couldn’t think what else to do. I had to meet Dr. Watson, and had no time to bury it, nor the nerve to stand mid-street and throw it away. I would have come back for it later, but I hadn’t reckoned on there being a policeman there all the time. As it was, I barely got him back to the room and locked inside before a constable turned up in the street.”
“You slipped the key to your grandmother as you left, of course? And she returned it to the inside of the lock as Constable Howie and the others stood in the room with Watson.”
The girl said nothing, but tightened her grip on the shotgun. Holmes did not appear overly concerned. “You will not implicate her? That is commendable, I suppose.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Improbable Prisoner Page 22