“Well done, Holmes,” I said, “you’ve ignited the creative spark.”
“To the creative spark,” Billy answered, and we all took another swallow.
“Actually, Mr. Holmes,” Billy observed, “what I was going to say about Sterne before you brought up his wife - ” (my friend bowed his head in false modesty) - “was that, when I took Sterne home last night, he told me that he’d heard of me - that my name had been mentioned to him by Terrence Leonard.”
“Really,” Holmes mused, setting down his glass. “Sterne knew Leonard? But not so strange really when we remember that Mrs. Sterne herself told us she’d met Leonard’s wife.”
I too recalled that fact from our initial conversation with Mrs. Sterne.
“The fact is,” Billy went on, “the Sternes and Leonards were neighbours. At least, they lived in the same town, Marlow - if not in the same neighbourhoods. Sterne said that some time or another Terrence had described to him those two occasions I’d helped Terrence when I’d found him so drunk he could hardly stand up.”
Holmes finished his drink and put down the glass. “We’re devoting too much attention to the wrong people,” he said. “We came here to remember Terrence Leonard, not the Sternes. I suggest it is time to go.”About to push away from the table, he added, “Besides, Billy, I shouldn’t think that you’d have any cause to see Mrs. Sterne in the future.”
“Actually,” Billy said with what I could only describe as a self-satisfied grin, “Mrs. Sterne herself asked me if I might come out to their home in Marlow tomorrow evening. She’s invited some people for a drinks-party and hoped I could attend. She wants someone to help keep an eye on her husband. She’d really like to know what’s been upsetting him so much. We know he’s been a heavy drinker; but as she tells it, this time he went off in the middle of a novel, which he’s never done before. She also says he’s been much quicker to anger. Since I helped him escape from Dr. Vering, she’d like me to do more if I can.”
“And the disdain for her husband that you spoke of but minutes ago?” Holmes asked.
“Working with him is the price I’m willing to pay to see his wife again. I will do my utmost to remain an objective observer.”
Such circumlocution was too much for me. I was about to protest Billy’s obsession with this woman when he announced that Holmes and I might attend the party as well: “‘Bring along your two friends,’ she wrote me. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think you’d be interested. Now, seeing your concern - ”
“I’m afraid I have some other matters to attend to,” Holmes said. “But, Watson, you might have a go at it. That way you could be sure that Billy’s behaviour remains true to the Dulwich code.”
“Sorry,” I said, uncertain whether Holmes was being sarcastic. “I have my patients to think about.”If Holmes wasn’t going to take responsibility for his former page, I certainly would not. Billy was a grown man. It wasn’t up to me to be his chaperone.
In fact, Billy had already planned his trip. The following afternoon he would travel to Marlow, attend the social gathering, and return on the last train to London. His job, as he had told us, was to support Raphael Sterne on the novelist’s journey back to health.
“If I may,” Holmes said to Billy, “since you are determined to go, I’d like to request an additional task.”
“Anything,” Billy offered.
“You are a writer. Keep notes on what transpires. Describe in detail your experiences in Marlow. Although our dealings with Raphael Sterne appear to be finished, don’t fail to record any matters of concern.”
“Much like my assignment with that ghostly hound on the Grimpen Mire, eh, Holmes?” I said, recalling my friend’s request for letters to him in London while I stayed at Baskerville Hall those many years ago.
“Precisely,” Holmes said. “Except that Billy can bring his report to us himself rather than having to post it.”
“Mr. Holmes,” Billy said, “you flatter me with the request. I’ll see you upon my return then.”
We finished our drinks and exited the pub in different directions; Billy wandered off to Bloomsbury; Holmes and I, back to Queen Anne Street. Personally, I felt a trifle tipsy. But however much the world was spinning, my vision was clear enough so that on this occasion, I too, as well as Holmes, noticed the black Daimler parked across the road. It was slow to start up; perhaps its occupant was confused over which direction to take, Billy’s or ours. But soon we could hear the deep purring sound as its engine sparked into life, and it began to move slowly behind Holmes and me. After we’d secured a cab, the Daimler continued to follow us all the way to my house, departing from us there in much the same manner it had displayed on the earlier occasion. The hawk-nosed driver we saw once more; its passenger remained a mystery.
* * *
I interrupt my narration at this point to include the written report of Billy the page regarding his experiences in Marlow that Wednesday and Thursday. I include two caveats: first, Billy’s style is significantly less formal than that of his more disciplined literary essays, which he contributed to publications like The Academy and The Alleynian. Second, his observations are psychologically - dare I say, shockingly - frank. Billy’s informal style, probably developed from his experiences as a journalist, seemed to have instilled in him a greater confidence the more often he utilized it, resulting in his many candid observations, revealing thoughts, and disturbingly explicit details. Although I personally attribute Billy’s openness to his American roots, I leave it to the wisdom of my perspicacious readers to determine the true motivations for the account that follows.
* * *
Wednesday morning,
26 July 1911
To Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson:
Forgive me if I sound like a faux näif, but with no characters in the drama yet to appear, I thought I might sharpen my pen by describing the lie of the land. I commence my short journey to Marlow on a wonderfully warm summer’s day. Indeed, the sunlight penetrating the railway carriage makes it easy to read the words I set down on paper. I can only hope such light will just as successfully illuminate the rest of the events I encounter. And yet one can’t forget that bright sunshine also renders stains the more clearly.
As I’m sure you know, the town of Marlow lies some thirty miles west of London. From what I’ve read, its major claim to distinction is that the poet Shelley lived there some time in the early nineteenth century. Since I’ve never actually been there, I reckoned that it wouldn’t be too difficult to reach. But when I arrived beneath the vaulted glass roof of Paddington at mid-morning, I discovered that the short journey actually requires three trains.
A lurch followed by a gentle swaying alerts me to the start of my trip. The first and longest leg ends at Maidenhead. After escaping London, we roll west across steel bridges and stone viaducts, travel the brief but monotonous route through the high embankments and sharp cuttings of the verdant English countryside, and finally cross a low bridge of bricked arches that not only spans the sparkling Thames but also marks the immediate approach to Maidenhead.
For some reason, the bridge itself looks strangely familiar, and then suddenly I recall Mr. Hose’s lecture back at Dulwich about Turner’s ghostly painting, Rain, Steam, and Speed, which depicts this very crossing. Perhaps you’ve seen the work; it hangs in the National Gallery as part of the Turner Bequest. Whatever grand design Turner may have intended with those ethereal orange and white swirls of mist and vapour that envelop so much of the canvas, the bridge and train remain readily perceptible; and I now believe, as we rattle along the rails of the G.W.R., that Mr. Hose got it right when, ignoring the eerie constructs or the lofty interpretations, he simply called the landscape Turner’s “tribute to the Great Western Railway.”
The second part of the journey runs from Maidenhead to Bourne End. The railway leaves Maidenhead and follows the sweep of the
Thames to the north. In the afternoon sun you get a vivid view of the river winding its way like a sinuous serpent through the green hills of Buckinghamshire. On a small plateau above looms Cliveden House, that majestic architectural playground of the rich, its Italianate terraces lording over the pedestrian rail and river traffic below. I’ve never seen it before, but who hasn’t heard of the celebrated place or its famous history? Such fantastic homes require lots of maintenance, of course; and over the years its one-time wealthy owners frequently ran out of money. Then Cliveden House would change hands as quickly as the church plate on which no one wants to leave a donation. Funny, in that respect, it’s a lot like Lord Steynwood’s estate, Idyllic Vale. Terrence liked that name. He said it fit since the so-called aristocrats whom he had run into over there could accurately be described as the “idle rich.”
To have heard Terrence tell it, Lord Steynwood himself was anything but idle. Apparently, His Lordship’s money came from sugar, which he had imported from the Colonies somewhere in the Caribbean. Lord Steynwood, so the story goes, bought Idyllic Vale from a turn-of-the-century tobacco importer who had needed more cash. His Lordship completed his marriage of wealth and influence when he spent much of his fortune on a string of important newspapers.
Now, as we all know, the man born Lucius Ward stands before us as one of the preeminent powerbrokers of our age. Which means, of course, that once everyone came to believe that Terrence Leonard had killed Lord Steynwood’s older daughter, His Lordship could - and, I’m convinced, did - make certain that that was how the story would remain. Blame it on the husband. That way, gossip about Lord Steynwood’s daughter could be contained.
Lord Steynwood possessed the capability to make people believe Terrence killed her. Lord Steynwood - or his people - could have caught up with Terrence and forced him to confess. From what Terrence used to tell me, I have no doubt Lord Steynwood had the means necessary to convince Terrence that, from the moment Sylvia died, Terrence’s life would no longer be worth living. In short, the suicide of Sylvia’s husband has been most convenient for Lord Steynwood.
The train whistle hoots. It might be in derision of my conspiratorial theory. But then again, it might be an underscoring. What it really does is announce our arrival at Bourne End just across the river.
As we roll into the station, an ominous great tower of steam billows from the unseen locomotive that will complete the final leg of the journey from London to Marlow. But soon I have to laugh. This “powerful” locomotive turns out to be nothing more than a small, green, cylindrical tank engine with the white numerals 522 on the front - altogether more fit to model for a child’s toy than for delivering all-important people on their all-important errands. Only now does a fellow passenger inform me that you complete the third part of the journey to Marlow on a small railway so slow that with great affection the locals have nicknamed it “The Marlow Donkey.” When it finally completes the just-under three miles to Marlow, the little engine trumpets a loud blast of its whistle to announce its arrival, a grand gesture from so meagre a source.
(The rest of this account I shall complete during my return to London.)
* * *
Who could have predicted that an evening begun so calmly could end with so much drama?
Red-brick buildings trimmed in white line Marlow’s High Street. With a deep-blue sky as background, yesterday presented a beautiful afternoon for a walk to my destination. A leisurely stroll past a number of intersecting roads brought me to a turning just off West Street. On that picturesque lane canopied by arching boughs stands the unique cottage of Elaine and Raphael Sterne. Its disjointed storeys, its bricks in varying colours of honey and red, and its steep mansard roof make it one of the craziest-looking houses I’ve ever seen, an ill-matched puzzle whose pieces have been jammed together. Studying its overlapping lines long enough could make you dizzy.
To be honest though, gentlemen, it really wasn’t my critical reaction to some off-kilter building that was quickening my pulse, but rather the thought of seeing the fair Elaine.
The invitation had encouraged casual attire, and I was dressed in boater and light linen. Some twenty people were already milling about when I arrived. Upon my entrance, a stuffed shirt in a dinner jacket took my hat, and I immediately snatched a flute of champagne from a silver tray carried by a cute, sparkling-eyed little maid in a crisp black-and-white uniform. In the drawing room, Raphael Sterne, the man of the hour, was mixing with several genteel characters bedecked in flowery waistcoats and iridescent ascots - a bouquet of humanity, you might say. They seemed caught up in some dilettantish banter; but upon noticing my appearance, Sterne began madly waving his arms in a frantic effort to motion me over.
Unfortunately, I must now report that, despite our noble attempt to save Raphael Sterne from the hellish den that his drinking had led him to, it was quite obvious from his stentorian pronouncements and raucous laughter, not to mention his bloodshot eyes and swaying gait, that he’d been hitting the bottle again. I reckon that you have about as much chance of separating a drunk from his alcohol as detaching a priest from his collar.
Then Elaine stepped into view.
Obviously, she had heard her husband’s loud voice, and now she walked - perhaps “glided” is a more precise term - towards us. Tonight, her golden hair tumbled to her shoulders. She was dressed in midnight blue, a fabulous low-cut chiffon fabric that, without its black underpinning, you could almost see through, the gold-coin necklace seeming to float on the swell of her breasts. Yet her piercing eyes of cornflower blue expressed an annoyance I hadn’t seen before. On the previous occasions we had met, her primary emotion had been one of concern. Tonight she was full of wrath. Even in anger, with her eyes narrowed and her mouth pursed, she reigned magnificent.
“Rafe,” she said to her husband, “you’ve had quite enough.”
Stashing his glass on the oak sideboard behind him, he held out his empty hands. “But I’m not drinking anything, my dear.”
“You know exactly what I mean,” she charged.
“I was merely about to welcome our friend - ” and here he actually embraced me “ - to the writers’ district.”
Fortunately, he let me go after a moment, about as long as I could tolerate the stink of his alcoholic breath.
“Oh,” he went on, “perhaps you don’t know why I call it the ‘writers’ district.”
I presumed that the term must have had some connection to Shelley, but I shook my head at his reference.
“You see?” Sterne said, staring Elaine down. “Actually,” he went on to explain, “Shelley and his wife lived in Albion House not far from here. It’s where she finished Frankenstein. And Shelley’s friend, Thomas Love Peacock, the novelist, lived just round the corner in West Street. I live here, and now you’ve arrived - a contributor to The Academy and to The Gazette if I’m not mistaken.”
“And The Spectator,” I added.
An effete young man sporting round eyeglasses and a long white cigarette in an ebony holder regarded me for an uncomfortable moment.
“Chandler, is it?” he asked, “R.T. Chandler, the poet?”
“Guilty as charged,” I quipped.
The flock of swells shared a round of laughter, though I couldn’t be sure whether they were laughing at my wit - or at my poetic aspirations.
“And what are you working on now, my dear boy?” asked a young dandy. Sporting a shock of black hair and a red ascot, he couldn’t have been much older than I.
“A couple of essays,” I answered. “One deals with the ever-increasing tolerance of readers towards heroes. The commonplace reader doesn’t concern himself with the breeding of his heroes any more. He demands only that these heroes can distinguish themselves in some way. Those are the heroes I call ‘remarkable.’”
Raised eyebrows greeted my explanation - as if they’d originally deemed me incapable of
formulating so erudite a thesis.
“But lately,” I went on, “I’ve become even more interested in the nature of the writers themselves, the kind of writers that some people call artists” - here I turned to gaze in particular at the man with the long cigarette holder - “but whom critics like me call ‘literary fops.’”
The group scattered as if iced water had been dumped on them. All but Sterne. He took the opportunity to retrieve the tall, narrow glass he had attempted to hide. After a long pull, he said, “You sound a bit irked with the current state of belles letters.”
“Only with some of its inhabitants.” In his intoxicated state, I realized, he would never conclude that I might be referring to him.
Indeed, he took up only my earlier reference and lifted his glass to mine. “Here’s to ‘remarkable heroes’ - like you and Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson - would they were here - who rescued me from the villainous Dr. Vering.” And then he gulped down the rest of his champagne.
At that moment a new couple entered the fray: a portly, middle-aged man with ginger hair and a grizzled beard accompanied by a handsome, raven-haired young woman.
“Dr. and Mrs. Goring,” the stuffed shirt announced.
So this was Cora, Sylvia Leonard’s younger sister, accompanied by the very doctor Lord Steynwood had called after the fact to administer to Terrence Leonard’s murdered wife. Marlow seemed to be a small world.
As the Gorings steered in our direction, Sterne observed through clenched teeth, “Of course, Elaine had to invite him. She’s always inventing some bloody reason to see the bastard.”
Goring’s eyes travelled over Elaine’ body, and a broad smile splashed across his face.
The Final Page of Baker Street Page 11