I asked him my usual question.
“What next, Holmes? With every passing day, your list of people who might have strung up young Master Shaw grows longer. For all I know, you have already added this poor farm girl and the sister.”
Holmes smiled back at me. “Of course, they have been added. When millions of pounds are at stake, every person who can put his, or her, finger in the pie becomes a suspect. However, in response to your question, tomorrow we shall return to the estate and see if we can find any data regarding mother, brother, and sister. And, assuming we are successful, we shall return to London and pay them a friendly visit. And I shall see you for breakfast, my friend.”
At just after nine o’clock the following day we returned to the manor house and were greeted by Sinden, the butler.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, maintaining the stone face that is ascribed to every English butler. “Is it Mr. Reginald Musgrave you wish to see, or Mr. Rochester Musgrave?”
Holmes confirmed that we wished to speak with Reginald Musgrave, and we were led through the house and to the study in the back corner of the north wing. I could not help but take notice of the furnishings and artwork as we walked along the hallway. None were labeled, and I am no connoisseur of English painters, but I was sure that some looked remarkably like paintings by Stubbs or Gainsborough, and even one, all yellow and gold, that could only have been by Turner. Any one of them after auctioned by Sotheby’s would bring enough wealth to support a man for the rest of his life.
There were several more hanging on the walls of the study in addition to the obligatory knight in full armor standing just behind Reginald Musgrave, who was seated at the desk in front of the window.
“Good morning,” he said cheerfully as he rose to greet us. “Such a welcome and pleasant surprise. Nothing like a friendly face to chase away the gloom and doom that hangs over this place. Some coffee, gentlemen?”
We assured him that we had been well fortified by the inn and asked after his health and the well-being of the staff.
“The staff are just fine, as you might expect. Lords of the manor come and go in these old houses, but the help stay for a lifetime. Sinden is in charge and has been for several years. Billy treated them well and paid them all a wage that was well above the local market. He even allowed Sinden to organize them into a union of sorts so they could all live merrily under the illusion that they had a modicum of power, so no problems there at all. They don’t much miss Billy, but they were quite fond of young Shaw.”
“I can imagine they were,” agreed Holmes. “Most of them would have watched him grow up here from his infancy. Will they be able to keep their positions, or will financial pressure force you to let some of them go, union or not?”
“Oh, no. No problem on that front at all, Holmes. I have spent the past day poring over the books and records. Oodles of money being received every month from the rents. No debts that I can see. All the properties are free and clear. There is no end of outstanding letters and files and issues to be dealt with. Billy was somewhat lax over the past year in keeping up with standard business transactions, but nothing that is at all untoward. I shall have to hire a manager posthaste since I have to return to Westminster in January when the House comes back into session, but otherwise, everything appears to be above board.”
“And the estate, has there been any action there? Claims being made and such?”
“You will have to ask my cousin Rochester about that. He came back here yesterday afternoon, and we sat and had a nice chat. Prince of a fellow, but terribly upset by the death of Shaw. He and I decided to divide and conquer as they say. I have taken on the management of the estate, and he has kindly agreed to oversee the lawyers and the probating. I’m afraid it is going to be complicated, but it will, as I mentioned the other day, sort itself out in time.”
“Was not the will clear as to William Musgrave’s intentions and his bequests?”
“Entirely, he left everything to his son, Shaw, but that does not stop every Tom, Dick, and Harry from registering his interest or claiming that Billy had promised him something. That stack of letters on the credenza had all arrived even before the death of Shaw, and this one has come in just this morning. Billy seems to have promised something to everyone he ever had anything to do with. The local hunt club is expecting a new hall. The rector let me know that he had agreed to pay for the new roof, and the local league of socialists has asserted that he was giving them a thousand pounds a month, and they expected that I would continue to do so.”
“And was he?”
“According to the ledger, yes. But that doesn’t mean that I have any obligation to continue to do so. I do, after all, hold the riding next door for the Conservative Party and I would be dismissed to the back row if they got wind of my sending money off to Keir Hardie and his ilk.”
“And what about other family members?”
“Interesting you should ask, Holmes. We are coming out of the woodwork. As you know, both my cousin Rochester and I have some standing. The second brother, Trevor, would usually be the first in line. But I just received a note from Melody’s solicitor claiming that she was never legally divorced by Billy. And then finally, if you can believe it, there is a local farm girl who says she was married to Shaw.”
Holmes gave a forced chuckle but did not respond one way or the other to the question.
“Would you mind,” he asked, “if I spent some time going through some of the family records? I assume you are aware that Scotland Yard has requested that I do some investigating since they considered both of the deaths to have some questions attached to them?”
“No. Not at all. If you need to borrow anything, just leave me a note. And if you want to know any more about all the eager relatives you can speak with Rochester. He’s in the library. I have to leave now and return to Hurlstone briefly, but you know how to find me if you need me.””
Over the next hour, Holmes poked through the personal files of Billy Musgrave. He made a small stack of selected documents and, when finished, placed them in his case.
“Anything interesting or untoward?” I asked.
“Not really. Lord Billy was quite an organized chap, and all seems to be in good order in what has become a very large and complex web of properties and holdings. His will is not here, but I suspect that Rochester has it. The other item that is missing from his personal file is the certificate of divorce from Mrs. Melody Musgrave. Perhaps Rochester has that as well. Time to go and pay him a visit.”
Rochester Musgrave was in the great library, sitting back in the far corner and ensconced in a large, comfortable chair. He had a book in his hands and appeared to be engrossed in it, so much so that he did not notice our entry and we are only a few feet away from him when he suddenly startled and looked up at us. He leaped to his feet and put the book down hastily.
“Ah, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, I see you are still with us in Sussex. How might I be of assistance to you?”
Holmes did not reply immediately but quickly cast his glance to the book that had been put down so quickly, as if we had come upon a school boy leering over the latest edition of The Pearl.
“Yes, yes, Mr. Holmes,” said Rochester. “I am once again reading Charles Dickens. All men, as I am sure you will agree, have ways of fortifying our souls when we meet with times of bereavement and grief. Some men turn to pharmaceuticals, some to wine and spirits, some to the comforts of the flesh. I confess that my particular crutch has been the great stories of literature. When I enter into a play or novel, my mind is taken away from the immediate events of life and for a time, at least, the pain is numbed. I recollect, Mr. Holmes, reading in one of Dr. Watson’s stories about your adventures that you made occasional use of a seven percent solution, did you not? Very well, sir, Dickens is my solution. I am sure you understand.”
He smiled warmly if somewhat sheepishly, and I knew, and I was sure Holmes knew, exactly what he meant. I could see that he had set up a small boo
kcase behind his chair on which some twenty books had been placed.
“However, gentlemen, I am also sure that you did not here to discuss my dear friends, the great books. How may I be of assistance to you?”
“You were kind enough,” said Holmes, “to bring your nephew to see me and to engage my services. You may not be aware that following his tragic death, Scotland Yard has requested that I continue with my investigation.”
Rochester Musgrave’s eye widened on this news. “Why no, I had not heard that, but I must say that I am very grateful, very grateful indeed, Mr. Holmes to know that you are assisting the inspector…”
Here he stopped speaking, and his voice faltered. He struggled to take control over his feeling and continued.
“I am sorry, sir,” he said, in a whisper. “Please bear with me. I confess that I am having great difficulty in coming to terms with what has taken place. I was terribly fond of and close to both my cousin and my nephew and their tragic loss has been very grievous. I do hold myself responsible in part for the loss of my nephew. My journey down to Eastbourne was of no great importance, merely an opportunity to visit with an old acquaintance from my days in the theater who is performing a role in a local production of Pinafore. But it is scheduled to play for several weeks. I could have gone at any time, and I should have known … I should have seen …”
Here he faltered yet again and took out his handkerchief to dab his eyes.
“I should have known how fragile his spirit was. Had I been here I am sure that Shaw would be alive today. But I was not and …”
At this point, he lost control and collapsed back into his chair, dropped his head and shoulders and covered his face with his handkerchief.
Holmes pulled up a hard-backed chair and sat down, motioning to me to do likewise.
Rochester Musgrave looked up at us again, and again the poor fellow muttered an apology, but he appeared to have overcome his emotional state and looked directly and Holmes. His voice was now more confident.
“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes. I was asking how I might be of assistance to you.”
“There is,” said Holmes, “an old adage that tells us that where there is a will, there is not only a way, but there are also eager relatives.”
“How true, how true.”
“And I understand from Mr. Reginald Musgrave that you have taken on the onerous duty of engaging with the powers that be and guiding the estate through probate. Is that correct, sir?”
“It is. It seemed the least I could offer to do. Having some sort of work distracts the mind almost as effectively as reading a tragic story. So yes, that lot has fallen to me.”
“And is it truly all that complicated?” asked Holmes. “I am not a lawyer, but it is my understanding that when the beneficiary named in the will dies intestate himself, then the law applies the rules of intestacy and determines and awards portions of the estate. I am informed that the younger brother, a Mr. Trevor Musgrave, of London, is the closest relative and next of kin. Am I mistaken, Mr. Musgrave?”
“Yes, yes. Well, no, to be more exact. The issue is not Billy’s will but Shaw’s will, or in this case, the lack of it and our inability to locate the certificate of divorce from Mrs. Melody Musgrave. It was complicated enough before the latest turn of events. I assume that Reggie told you about the local farm girl.”
“He did.”
“No one knew anything about her, and we have all concluded that her documents are forgeries, but it may take some time to prove all of that.”
“Have you any idea,” asked Holmes, “where the former wife is to be found?”
“Haven’t the foggiest, sir. I suppose she could be tracked down, and perhaps you could do that for us, sir. I am not being serious in suggesting that, Mr. Holmes. It is the responsibility of the estate to look after those matters, and as you are now working on your own shilling, we certainly would not expect that of you.
“Is there any other matter with which I can help you, Mr. Holmes? I fear that your visit has reminded me of all the many tasks on my plate and I must, with regret, leave Pip and Estella for the present and get to them.”
He rose from his chair and in a most gracious manner let it be known that we should be on our way if we had no further purpose to our visit. We acknowledged his assistance and departed.
Chapter Nine
A School Not for Scandal
ON THE TRAIN back to London, Holmes opened his case and began to review the documents taken from the files of Billy Musgrave.
“My dear doctor,” he said, “is it correct that the occurrence of twins is an inherited trait? Why do they seem to be common in some families and unknown in others?”
“The why,” I replied, “we do not know. But yes, it is a fact that some families may, over many generations, have quite a few sets of twins whilst others have none. But there is no systematic Mendelian ratio or anything approaching it. You might say it is predictably irregular.”
“Ah, yes. An excellent way to describe it. I found a number of documents pertaining to Lord Billy’s ancestors, and it appears that there were at least seven set of twins over the past century. That many would be unusual, would it not.”
“Unusual for an average family,” I said, “but normal for a family that was prone to giving birth to twins. We medical men are, on balance, happy to deliver twins. Although the birth itself is more dangerous for the mother, it tends to make for happier English families. The children always have a playmate, and they tend to care for each other long after they become adults. Some until they become aged and pass away.”
“Yes,” agreed Holmes, “a good thing from the perspective of the medical profession. And an even better thing for the lawyers when they appear in wealthy families. It gives them all sorts of lucrative work to do as siblings battle out issues of inheritance. Unless families are very careful, which they tend not to be in the intensity of childbirth, it is easy to confuse which twin was which when they entered the world. Primogeniture may at times be only a matter of seconds. And that appears to be what has happened in the family tree of the Musgrave-Dacre dynasty. There are several accounts of a battle royal being fought. Quite fascinating.”
“Are we going now to speak to Master Shaw’s twin brother?”
“We will,” said Holmes, “if we can locate the fellow. Our only reference at the moment is his mother’s last known place of employment.”
“The school in Kensington?”
“Precisely.”
The Queen’s Gate School for Girls has a well-earned reputation for giving young women from some of our better-off families the finest not only in intellectual training but in all-round preparation in manners, culture, and household management that are required by a young woman as we approach the dawn of a new century. It recently relocated to a new location on one of London’s more select residential streets and from the outside was indistinguishable from the neighboring row houses.
Upon ringing at the front door, we were met by a young woman, one of their senior students I assumed, who gave a shallow curtsy and a friendly smile. She was not, even by English standards, overly attractive, but possessed an obvious charm and self-confidence.
“Good morning, gentlemen, and welcome to Queen’s Gate. My name is Camilla, and I have door duty for this morning. How may I assist you?”
“We would,” I said, “appreciate an opportunity to speak to your headmistress, Miss Kamrose.”
“Oh, I am so sorry, gentlemen, but she is currently teaching a class and has classes all morning. However, our administrator, Mr. Cushway, is available. Shall I let him know that you wish to speak to him or would you prefer to return this afternoon?”
“Your administrator would be just fine, Miss,” I said.
“And whom may I say is calling on him?”
“My name is Dr. John Watson, and this is my colleague, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
The young lady’s eyes widened for just a second and then she smiled again.
“Please, gen
tlemen, this way. Shall I have one of the staff bring you some tea?”
“No miss,” I said. “Thank you for asking, but that will not be necessary.”
She led us to an office door and bid us be seated on the bench outside of it as she entered to announce us. Whilst sitting there for several minutes, like errant school children, Holmes squinted his eyes and read the notices on the wall across from us. I was content to reflect on the well-mannered young lady we had just met.
“Quite the confident young lass,” I noted. “I am sure she will marry well.”
“I have no doubt,” said Holmes, “that she will, perhaps more than once.”
He could be terribly cynical at times.
Miss Camilla returned and graciously informed us that our man was terribly busy but would, of course, be happy to interrupt whatever he was doing and speak to us briefly.
“Ah, well, this is a pleasant surprise,” said the tall and well-groomed gentleman who stood to greet us. “Of late Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson have caused all sorts of havoc here at Queen’s Gate. Our senior girls are quite enlivened by reading the stories of your exploits in The Strand. They will be very excited to learn that you have visited us. By tomorrow they will have made up all sorts of imagined mystery stories as to what must have happened up in the attic.”
He gave a soft laugh and continued. “No doubt our headmistress will be hearing reports of bodies, ghosts, and murderous mistresses for weeks to come.”
Again, he laughed at his pleasantry, and I joined him in doing so.
“I fear,” I said, “that our visit has no such fascination attached to it. We need to make contact with one of your staff. Perhaps she is no longer employed here, but you might have an address on file. It is an urgent family matter.”
“More than happy to help, if I can. Who might you be trying to locate?”
“A Mrs. Melody Musgrave,” I replied. “Is she now or has she recently been a member of your staff?”
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