“Then,” I said, “it was Stoddard’s intention to somehow replace Mr. Hayden and assume the inheritance.”
“That’s how I read it,” said Holmes. “He spoke the truth when explaining how he recently moved to Exeter to help with his uncle’s practice, which seemingly does manage the affairs of just a few well-to-do clients, mostly in England, but a few with American connections. Only a few days after his arrival, as shown by documents on his desk, the information about the extent of Mr. Helverton’s estate appeared - a fact completely unknown to Fenton Stoddard, I might add. These papers explained the true amount of the assets, the identity of the heir, and the conditions for claiming the inheritance - namely, a visit in person to the New York offices handling Helverton’s fortune, with substantiating proofs in hand.
“While Thad Flatcher and I had been to the house, and then the chemical laboratory, Fenton Stoddard had received replies from New York, indicating that they had been told that the heir was found, and would present himself within a few weeks, providing proper documentation of his identity. Specifically, the heir was described to them as appearing very much like Ethan Stoddard, and not like you, Mr. Hayden. You will have observed that you are physically quite different from one another. This description of the heir was backed and certified by the good reputation of Stoddard and Stoddard, who had handled Clark Helverton’s affairs in England for decades, and therefore it would have been completely accepted by the New York lawyers, as they indicated in their wire.
“We’ll know more specifics when he is interrogated, but Ethan Stoddard realized as soon as the first letter arrived from New York that the requirements were just vague enough that he, a young man of the same approximate age, could take Mr. Hayden’s place. However, rather than simply stealing documents that he could use to assume the true heir’s identity, he apparently decided to make sure that any stray loopholes caused by your continued existence, Mr. Hayden, would be closed. He had quickly researched you and found that you were an orphan without living kin. After you were removed-”
“Killed,” interrupted Hayden, with a catch in his voice.
“Yes, killed,” amended Holmes, “with no one of your acquaintance knowing anything about your trip to Exeter, he would have broken into your London rooms, found what he needed to allow him to assume your identity, prepared whatever supporting legal documents that he would need to be sent or carried from England, and then made his way to New York, after convincingly winding up his affairs here. Who could challenge him? He would have sent word to your employer and landlord that you had departed in such a way that your absence would be regretted or resented, but quickly forgotten, and also provided some story to his uncle before he himself left, while preventing the old man from ever learning about the Helverton inheritance.
“He would have sent specific information to the New York offices managing the estate from Stoddard and Stoddard to make sure that nothing else was ever sent to Exeter that might undo his story. He might have even undertaken to use more of the chloral hydrate to remove his old uncle from the picture, effectively closing the Exeter practice completely. It was an opportunity that literally fell into his lap, and he saw that he could manipulate both ends of things without it ever being discovered. He is the sort of crafty person that saw his chance and cobbled his plan together within days. The simple and unpleasant fact that you didn’t drink the wine, Mr. Hayden, was the grit in the machine that saved your life and started the unraveling of his scheme.”
“So what happens now, Mr. Holmes?” asked Youghal. “When I first heard of this on the train last Saturday, there was nothing criminal in what had occurred - yet. Mr. Hayden saw a fellow with a gun and a hatchet sneaking around in the dark, but no attack had actually occurred, and proving intent is sometimes impossible, as you know. Even now, we might make a case of fraud, based on what he told the New York lawyers, but Stoddard can rightly claim that he did find the correct heir, and that he still intended to present Mr. Hayden here at the proper time. Your theories about what he intended cannot be completely proven, and he can blow up any case we might make with legal tricks about making us provide proof.”
“I believe that a bit more will come to light,” replied Holmes cryptically. “When I left for London yesterday, Fenton Stoddard was curiously going over the books at his office, and he seemed to have found something more tangible. Additionally, he’s been in touch with Ethan Stoddard’s former employers in London, and I think they have something to say as well.” Youghal waited, but Holmes didn’t elaborate.
“When we arrive in Exeter,” I said, filling the silence, “we will confront him.”
“Yes,” agreed Holmes. “Ethan returned to Exeter last night, accompanied unknowingly by Wiggins and a few of the other lads. They, along with the Flatcher brothers, have watched him continuously since then. Long before Ethan arrived, Fenton Stoddard returned to his own home with the plan to exaggerate his illness, in the unlikely event that his nephew tries to communicate with him in the meantime. He is genuinely outraged at the breach of trust enacted by his nephew, and he will let us do what is necessary. I expect that Ethan Stoddard is in the office now. We left the Helverton documents as we found them, so that he would not be alerted.”
“Isn’t that a risk?” I asked. “If he does think that his plan is coming apart, he might destroy something.”
“Not too risky. He certainly knows nothing for certain except that Mr. Hayden disappeared from the river house on Friday night, along with the dog-cart that he left tied on the road. To his knowledge, Mr. Hayden never returned to his London rooms, and has seemingly vanished. Ethan may panic due to the uncertainty, but I think he’s made of sterner stuff than that, and will wait to see if he has another chance. After all, he’s playing for a very fine prize indeed. And even if he destroys documents in his possession, the information is still available at the New York end, as well as the testimony from those attorneys as to what fraudulent information he has already relayed to them - namely, that the heir has been found, along with a false description. Finally, as I said, the Irregulars and Thad Flatcher are in place if Ethan bolts, and the last wire I had from Exeter, an hour before we departed, reported that he had returned to Exeter yesterday evening - I likely passed him on the up train during my return - and after spending the night in his own rooms, he opened up the offices at eight o’clock this morning, the usual time.”
Youghal nodded. “A workmanlike job as usual, Mr. Holmes. I look forward to speaking to this young scoundrel.”
The inspector’s wish was granted, and the rest is soon told. Holmes had nothing further to report and, refusing to speculate without further data, he smoked his pipe the rest of the journey while Hayden, Youghal, and I discussed the case. Hayden alternated between struggling comprehension of the sudden unexpected fortune and just how close he had come to disaster.
Upon our arrival at St. David’s Station in Exeter, we were met by Wiggins, who informed us that Ethan Stoddard was still at the law practice, where he had been since that morning. Holmes then led us across to the Great Western Hotel, where Hayden had eaten breakfast just two days before. Waiting inside were several people, including a local inspector named Hanks, Thad Flatcher, and a wizened glowering old man, who, as expected, turned out to be Fenton Stoddard. Although his recent illness was apparent, he hobbled toward Holmes with vigor and shook a packet of telegrams. “Just as you thought, Mr. Holmes! It is beyond the theft of the inheritance. I have been nursing a viper to my bosom!”
Holmes quickly read through the flimsy sheets, one after another, before handing them to me. Some were from New York, confirming in greater detail the misleading statements and assertions made by Ethan Stoddard regarding the Helverton heir. There was no doubt that a case of fraud could be clearly proven. Another was from Stoddard’s former employer in London. Unknown to his uncle, the nephew had been let go from his previous position in Lincoln’s Inn Fields for suspected the
ft just weeks before being summoned to Exeter. “But even worse,” said the old man, holding out a second sheaf of papers, “he has been moving against me here, forging my name to documents, and apparently cleaning out my own accounts before his departure for America.”
Holmes looked at the papers and nodded. “He would have only done this, Mr. Stoddard, if he knew that you would not be around to discover it. Clearly, as I theorized, your death was part of his plan. Doubtless, you would have seemingly died in your sleep, with the story spread that it was a relapse from your recent illness. He would have quietly closed your practice, with the assets already spirited away through his earlier forgeries, and then departed these shores, with no one the wiser, ready to assume Mr. Hayden’s identity. What a pity he turned such a quick-thinking mind to crime.”
With a scowl and a clearing of his throat, Mr. Stoddard signaled that he didn’t share my friend’s somewhat misplaced admiration. Holmes announced that there was no need to put off confronting Ethan Stoddard any longer, and we piled into cabs summoned from the nearby station. Then came the slow ascent up St. David’s Hill, across the Iron Bridge, and eventually left into the High Street, with the Cathedral looming over us just a block away. Parking around the corner from Stoddard’s office, we assembled a short distance from the legal practice, with Holmes and Wiggins providing assistance to the old man.
We approached the doorway by crowding near to the building, so as not to be seen from the windows. The old man had informed us that his nephew was likely at his desk upstairs. From nearby, Thad Flatcher and the Irregulars made themselves known.
After silently entering the ground floor, we gathered out of sight, away from the foot of the stairs, and Fenton Stoddard called out sharply, “Ethan! Come down here!”
Overhead, we heard a chair scrape, followed by a surprised, “Uncle?” Then we heard footsteps cross the room above us and start down the stairs. “I had no idea you were well enough to come into-” He was unable to continue the thought, as his appearance in the room corresponded with both arms being grabbed by the two inspectors, who quickly handcuffed him.
He fought for a moment and then, seeing Jerrold Hayden standing before him, fists clenched at his sides, he sagged in defeat. Later, under the combined questioning of Inspectors Youghal and Hanks, Ethan Stoddard would attempt a half-hearted defense, ignoring the offer of counsel and the initial warning that his statements could be used against him. He only dug himself deeper and deeper, straight into a substantial prison sentence.
The elder Mr. Stoddard, with a combination of unnecessary guilt by mere association to the affair and a lifetime of advising a few select wealthy clients, took Jerrold Hayden under his wing, and in future years, we were to hear of the exponential growth of the original Helverton inheritance, a great deal of which was used to fund charitable activities on both sides of the Atlantic, not the least of which was an orphanage of great renown in a formerly abandoned mansion on the shores of the River Teign.
More immediately satisfying to me upon our return to London was learning of the next day’s arrangements to visit Hornchurch and dig up the treasure identified in Morgan’s palimpsest. I wasted no time in seeking an extension of my physician friend’s services at Dr. Weaver’s practice. Apparently this worked out well for the both of them, as Dr. Weaver, having met a dancer in Cannes, decided to sell the practice post-haste, and for some reason the location appealed to my own temporary locum, who scraped up enough money to buy it.
On the following day, Holmes and I made our way northeast of London to find the treasure. Of course it wasn’t that simple, and before we were finished, I’d had a dunking in an overgrown pond, one man had lost his freedom, and another his sanity. But that is another story...
The Adventure of the Faithful Servant
by Tracy Revels
“I believe my employer has been bewitched, Mr. Holmes. Is it within your powers to break a spell?”
My friend Sherlock Holmes raised an eyebrow at the inquiry, which had been spoken by a thin, elderly man, clad in a somber black suit. He had given his name as Harold Tifton, the butler of Stag Hall, and had come seeking advice as to how to aid his beloved master. He lifted his head as he waited for a reply, and I was struck again not only by the painful anxiety that had distorted his lean face, but also by the grayish film that covered both eyes. He had entered our rooms with the aid of a cane, and held himself so still that I sensed he feared the awkwardness of being in unfamiliar surroundings, where he might easily trip and upset some article of furniture. As always, Holmes’s response was firm but gentle.
“I do not deal in the diabolical, sir. However, if you will tell me what troubles your employer, perhaps we can unravel a less supernatural cause for his predicament.”
The man seemed unconvinced by this reply. “I know I am old and foolish, but for the gentleman I have served for years to suddenly become almost a stranger to me - it seems like dark magic. Perhaps I should seek the advice of a priest instead.”
“Watson, will you pour some tea for our guest?” Holmes asked. “I have great respect for the instincts of those in domestic service, Mr. Tifton. There is no keener observer of humankind. If you feel something is harming your master, it is very likely that a difficulty exists. Please, tell us your story.”
With that reassurance, and a teacup that I guided to his trembling hands, the dignified servant began to speak.
“My employer is Mr. Edwin James Asher. You may be familiar with the family name.”
“The Ashers, of the Manchester mills?”
“Indeed, sir. They are among the great industrialists of our nation. My master is the only son of a junior branch of the family, and he inherited a substantial estate when he was twenty years of age. It permitted him to be a scholar and traveler. He has written a small monograph on his youthful journey to America.” A bit of pride brought color into Tifton’s hollow cheeks. “The Mysteries of the Okefenokee.”
“I recall it well,” Holmes said. “You would enjoy the book, Watson. Mr. Asher’s adventures among the strange American species known as the ‘Crackers’, not to mention the alligators, would appeal to your love of the grotesque.” He turned back to our guest. “Did you accompany your employer on this journey?”
“No, sir. He was in America long before we met. I made his acquaintance after he returned to Manchester and began to woo the daughter of Mr. Matthew Chandler. I was the head footman in the Chandler household at the time. I am not inclined to gossip, but everyone below stairs thought it was a strange romance. Mr. Asher was some two decades older than Miss Eleanor, and not a sociable man in the least. However, she adored him. They wed and moved to a fine home in London. Mr. Asher hired me to be his butler at that time.”
“Was the match a happy one?” Holmes asked.
“No couple could have been more devoted, sir. Mr. Asher often said that all he wished for was a large fireside and a little wife. He had his books and artifacts to study, and my dear mistress often said she was content with studying Mr. Asher.” The cup abruptly clattered as Tifton was seized with a strong emotion. I leapt up and took it from him as he fumbled for a handkerchief. “Please forgive me. I had known her since she was a baby in her cradle. Miss Eleanor was heaven’s angel sent to earth, so perhaps God wished her home.”
“There was an accident?” I asked.
“No, sir, an illness, and it came upon her very suddenly. One day she was laughing and flitting around the house, and a month later we were putting her to rest in Highgate Cemetery. To sharpen the pain, she had been in the family way when she passed.”
I closed my eyes. Such a loss might well cost a loving man his sanity. Holmes spoke dryly.
“And how did your master respond?”
“He could no longer bear the sight of London. He sold everything in the city and purchased Stag Hall in the village of Edendore. It was, he said, as deep as he cou
ld bury himself and still be alive. None of the other staff would abide such a rustic existence, but I could not abandon him. We settled into Stag Hall six months ago. My master hired only three people - a cook who also sees to the housekeeping, a valet, and a stable boy who tends the grounds.” Tifton coughed uncomfortably. “I will not speak ill of them - they are, after all, only country folk who have never been employed by a true gentleman before - but I often am forced to reprove them for neglecting their duties.”
“So Mr. Asher isolated himself?” I asked.
“He did, sir. His grief was unbearable. Then, about three months ago, on a trip into the village to mail a letter, he made the acquaintance of a Mr. Remington. He told me that Mr. Remington was an American and a fellow scholar. I encouraged him to call upon this gentleman, as the chance meeting had lifted my master’s spirits. He said that he would, and I heard from the others on the staff that he did, quite often, while I was away.”
“You were absent?” Holmes asked.
“Yes, sir. A week after Mr. Asher met Mr. Remington, my younger brother Albert passed away in Scotland. Mr. Asher granted me a month to settle all of Albert’s affairs. My brother left behind two boys and a little girl, and I needed time to find schools for them.”
“Your master sounds like an ideal employer,” I said.
Tifton smiled tightly. “He is, indeed, the finest gentleman any man could wish to serve. He has his own ways, but he has been kind and generous, especially as my eyesight has grown so weak. Never once has he suggested that I leave my post due to my infirmity.”
“Until now?” Holmes asked. Tifton shook his head.
“No, sir. At least, he has not said it outright, but... perhaps I should finish my story. When I returned from Scotland, Mr. Asher told me that Mr. Remington was returning to America, and he was going to London to see him off. Jenkins, the valet, accompanied him. They were gone for three days. When they returned, Mr. Asher had contracted a terrible cold, and Jenkins put him to bed where he stayed, racked with fever and coughing, for almost a month. I wanted to summon a doctor, but he would have none of it. Finally, Mr. Asher emerged from his room thinner and bundled in his robes, his beard unkempt, his hair disarrayed, and his voice much coarsened by the ordeal.”
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 13