“I believe,” he said out loud, “that this is the place in the script where the instructions say Enter Sherlock Holmes, Stage Left.”
He jumped to his feet and strode into the room.
“And I really must thank you all for responding to my summons. So very courteous of you.”
Lestrade and Constable Duncan immediately followed him. I brought up the rear guard. The combination of shock, anger, and fear on the faces of the five people we were approaching was somewhat amusing.
Holmes marched up first to the young man.
“Mr. Trevor Musgrave, I assume. So nice to see you again. I believe the last time we met was…oh, let me see…ah, yes, in my office on Baker Street. You are not a very good actor. I suggest that you consider another line of employment…after you get out of prison.”
He next turned to the young woman.
“Forgive me, miss, as we have not been introduced. My name is Sherlock Holmes. Your family name is Cushway, of course, as is your father’s and your step-mother’s. Did no one tell you that it is a serious criminal offense to hire someone to assault a young woman? No? Pity. Someone should have.
“And Mr. and Mrs. Cushway, how do you do? You both had quite a comfortable life at the school and a pleasant home in Chelsea. Such a shame that you gave in to greed and fell for a promise of instant riches. I am quite certain that you teach your students the exact opposite and hope they remember to apply their lessons to their lives. Unfortunately, you appear to have failed that class.”
He now turned and addressed Rochester Musgrave, who sat glaring at him, unable to keep the apoplectic anger from his face.
“Your branch of the family, by an instant of cruel fate during your grandfather’s birth, was cut out of the vast fortune of the estate. When your foolish investment in Ceylon came a cropper, you had no choice but to come cap-in-hand to your wealthy cousin, William, and ingratiate yourself to him. With nothing else to do, you discovered the old copy of Pilgrim’s Progress, deciphered the clues, found the treasure and realized that all the wealth had been transferred to expanding the estate. The only way you could ever have a portion of it was if William were to die and if you were to arrange that the inheritance go to his former wife and second son. How much did you demand as your share for doing so? A third? A half? Two-thirds?”
Rochester said nothing in response to Holmes’s taunt.
“He wanted a half,” said Mr. Cushway.
“A reasonable request,” said Holmes. “First, you planted the false book in the section of the library that you knew Shaw Musgrave would soon discover. When you saw him follow the much-too-simple clues to the crypt you lured Billy into the graveyard by calling as if you were a child in danger.”
“Idiotic nonsense!” snapped Rochester. “That is nothing but your groundless conjecture.”
“Conjecture, you say? I prefer to call it deduction, sir. And it is supported by your colleagues in the theater who can give endless accounts of your ability to mimic voices of all ages. And having lured your cousin to the door of the crypt you assaulted him, silently, most likely with chloroform to render him unconscious and likely kept him smothered with chloroform until his heart gave out. And how silly of you to attribute it to the ghost. Really, sir, Hamlet’s father and Banquo might work wonderfully well in the theater but to a detective and even to the police, they do not exist. But then you purloined the certificate of divorce from cousin Billy’s private files and then you convinced these foolish people that if they would go along with you they could have half the estate.”
“But your plan fell apart when another copy of the divorce papers showed up, and your determined plan became even more diabolical. You convinced Trevor that he could pretend to be his brother and act as if he were severely distressed and on the verge of taking his own life. You told him the words and actions he would need to be convincing and then you brought him to no less a witness than me so that I would acknowledge to the police how distraught he had been.
“Now you only had to get rid of the elder son and the estate would fall to the second son. So, you strangled your nephew, Shaw Musgrave, and then hung him from the oak trees and tried to make it look like a suicide. Perhaps it might have been convincing on a stage in Liverpool, but it was so clumsy that even Scotland Yard was not taken in.”
“That is a lie!” shouted Rochester. “I was nowhere near here when that happened. I was miles away. You have no basis whatsoever for that accusation!”
“Ah, do I not? You did indeed make a visit to Eastbourne to see a play and spend time with an old colleague, who says, by the way, that he was surprised to see you as you had really not been at all close friends and you had never come to see him perform in the past. But then there is the livery man who will testify that he picked up a gentleman who was of the same height and weight as you at the late train at Polegate and delivered him to the Musgrave Manor House around eleven o’clock in the evening and following instructions, waited for him all night and returned him to Polegate in time for the first morning train back to Eastbourne. Of course, he will also testify that the man he drove back and forth did not look at all like you, and as you had used your skill in theatrical make-up to disguise yourself, that made it impossible for us to deny your alibi. Unfortunately, even for a very short journey by train, you would not give up your habit of traveling in the first-class carriage, which requires a reserved ticket, which you made in your name at the Eastbourne station. The station master is prepared to identify you as the one who purchased the ticket.
“Again, everything was now within your grasp with Shaw Musgrave dead and gone, every farthing would go to his brother, Trevor. But Shaw had not let you in on the secret that he had gone and gotten married. You knew you would have to threaten and chase away the poor young farm girl who was now his wife. You could not do that yourself since you did not even know who she was or how to find her. So, you hired the local brute, Wilf Pike, to do your work for you. But again, you could not do that directly as he knew who you were and could easily identify you if he were caught. So, you brought the only remaining member of the family into your scheme, Mr. Cushway’s daughter by his first wife. She came and hired Pike and paid him to give a beating to Edith Tucknott. But you did not count on his tardiness in doing the job he was paid to do, nor in the cleverness and determination of the girl. By your evil actions, you have destroyed this family and rendered Miss Edith the sole heir to the great Musgrave fortune.”
Here Holmes stopped. Neither Rochester Musgrave nor any of the Cushway family spoke.
“Have you anything,” asked Lestrade of Rochester, “to say for yourself, sir?”
Rochester said nothing, crossed his arms on his chest, and defiantly shook his head.
“Then,” continued Lestrade, “allow me to suggest that you find yourself a good lawyer. Now, all of you, come with me.”
Lestrade gestured to the five of them to follow Constable Duncan out of the library. They stood in silence and did as they were told.
.
Chapter Eleven
Good Night, Miss Havisham, Wherever You Are
BY SUPPER TIME, Lestrade had returned to the Horseshoe Inn and joined Holmes and me for an excellent dinner of lamb chops enhanced with generous mounds of mint jelly.
“Well done, Holmes,” said Lestrade. “That Rochester chap had me completely fooled. He seemed so completely trustworthy.”
“I confess,” said Holmes, “that he had me the same way. He is a very experienced actor who has played every role on the stage, and he knew exactly how to act in order to be completely convincing. Were it not for our good doctor’s reading habits I might not have seen through him.”
“Holmes,” I said, “you really must explain that one. And what, in heaven’s name, did Havisham have to do with it?”
“You were reading Dickens,” said Holmes. “Do you recall that I had said that he was the master of giving his characters all those actions, words, ways of dressing and moving, and all those odd
small quirks of behavior that led the reader to know, most assuredly, if the character was to be trusted or not?”
“I do recall that.”
“I sat across from you as you read one more time about Pip and Miss Havisham. The poor lad was deceived by her into believing that she was his benefactor. She was the master at acting and speaking in such a way as to deceive him. She kept it up for years, did she not? Rochester had taken on his own Miss Havisham. He knew exactly what to do and what to say consistently so that all of us would trust him completely. When I sat looking at you, it suddenly came to me and so I thank you, my friend. Had it not been for you I would still be in his thrall.”
“You really must thank Dickens, not me.”
“You can thank him,” said Lestrade, “all you want, but he’s dead and gone and cannot respond. And so, Holmes, is your client. A shame you will have yet another case paid for by your own shilling.”
Homes sat back and lit his pipe.
“I rather suspect, Inspector, that in a year from now, when Mrs. Edith Musgrave finds herself to be one of the wealthiest young women in the realm, that she might be willing to pay my fee if I submit it to her. Do you think she will do that, Inspector?”
Lestrade laughed. “Oh, I am sure she will. She will be in your debt, as long as she does not have to wait a decade to see her money.”
“Ah, Inspector. You have given me the solution to that one.”
Lestrade gave Holmes a raised eyebrow.
“I will,” said Holmes, “wait here in the village for two more days and then shall offer to accompany Mrs. Edith into London. There I will give her advice directly from the lips of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.”
“And what, Holmes,” Lestrade asked, “might that be?”
“I will say to her, ‘My dear young lady, get yourself a good lawyer.’ ”
Historical and Other Notes
The years from 1640 to 1660 were tumultuous ones for England. The Civil Wars of the first decade divided the country and culminated with the beheading of King Charles I and the installation of the Commonwealth under Oliver Cromwell. In 1660 the Glorious Revolution brought back the monarch, Charles II, and ushered in the Restoration Period and the flowering of literature, theaters, and the arts. The historical references in the story are more or less accurate.
King Charles I did in fact try to escape from the palace where he had been imprisoned and make his way to Europe via Southampton. The attempt failed and he was returned to London to face trial and execution. The detour through East Sussex is fictional as is the idea that he took a portion of the royal treasury with him. His ghost, with his head tucked underneath his arm, has been seen in many places throughout England but Herstmonceux has not been favored to be one of them.
The castle at Herstmonceux was built in the 1440s by Sir Roger Fiennes, the Treasurer of the Household of King Henry VI. It was a significant residence for two centuries until it was allowed to become derelict in the late 1700s and it was still in that state at the time of this story. Beginning in 1913, restoration began on it and for several decades it was used by the Admiralty and the Royal Greenwich Observatory. In 1992, it was purchased by Alfred Bader, a wealthy Canadian industrialist, fully refurbished as a state-of-the-art learning center and donated to Bader’s alma mater, Queen’s University of Kingston, Ontario, Canada so that it could serve as their International Study Centre.
I have visited the Centre and two of my daughters and my son-in-law spent a term at ‘The Castle.’ It provided them with an exceptional educational experience, even if most of the stories that I heard about their time there somehow had more to do with field trips to London and the Continent and pub crawls.
There is an All Saints Church adjacent to the castle, but there is no great manor house.
Although I write these stories as a Sherlockian and devotee of Conan Doyle, I must agree with Dr. Watson that Charles Dickens was the greatest novelist of the Victorian age.
Corrections and suggestions for improvement to the historical elements of this and all New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries are always welcomed and appreciated.
Did you enjoy this story? Are there ways it could have been better? Please help the author and future readers by posting a constructive review on the site where you bought your book. Thank you.
The Spy Gate Liars
A New Sherlock Holmes Mystery
Chapter One
Rushing to Nancy
CROSSING THE CHANNEL on a fine morning in the early spring of ’87, with the sun shining over a calm sea, the breeze in my face, and the white cliffs of Dover fading behind me should have been an uplifting experience to my soul.
But I was worried sick.
I had not slept a wink the night before. At six o’clock that morning, I had rushed out of our rooms on Baker Street, shouted at the cab driver to hurry to Victoria Station, and then stood and paced up and down the railway platform waiting for the first train to Dover.
Now I was pacing fore and aft on the deck of the Dover to Calais ferry, knowing full well that my doing so would not speed the boat up in the least.
The reason for my distress was in my pocket; a telegram that had arrived in the late afternoon of the previous day. It ran:
Cher Docteur Watson:
Votre ami, M. Sherlock Holmes est très malade. Il est à l’article de la morte. Veuillez vous rendre à Nancy dans les plus brefs délais.
Dr. Alphonse Stoskopff
Médicin du garde
Hotel Grand Dulong
Place Stanislas, Nancy
I had immediately sent a return telegram to the house doctor demanding more information but had received no reply, which was not at all surprising as French doctors seldom work past five o’clock, even if they do not get back to their wives before seven.
Holmes never took sick. His constitution was made of iron and I had, in utter amazement, observed him over the past few years as he went without sleep for days on end, kept alive only by tobacco and coffee, when in hot, intense pursuit of a case.
During the past several months, he had worked non-stop all over Europe identifying one criminal after another who was part of the notorious Trapani Mandamento and seeing them off to prison or the gallows. As he had begun to pull on one strand of their web of underworld enterprises, he continued to discover yet another dastardly activity. Arms and armaments were being illegally sold across borders for the equipping of any anarchist group who placed an order for them. Young women and even some young men had been smuggled in from India for immoral purposes. Bank vaults had been broken into without the bankers’ noticing until the money was long gone. Holmes methodically unwound each of the intricate plots and solved the mysteries.
Far from wearing him down, it invigorated him. He sent brief notes affirming that he was beside himself with zealous satisfaction, hardly able to contain his sheer joy, and grudgingly taking only an hour or two of sleep when sitting in a train cabin. He was utterly and completely alive.
For Sherlock Holmes to be near death was unheard of, and I feared that he had been poisoned by some fiend. I had packed my medical bag full of every known antidote for every deadly concoction that could have been administered to him unawares, and I hoped and prayed that he had not succumbed already.
Long before the ferry alarm sounded announcing our pending arrival at the port of Calais, I was standing in the front of the line at the exit, ready to rush off and run across the center of the town to the railway station. As soon as the stevedores lowered the wide gangplank, I was on my way. Calais is, like the rest of France, supremely unorganized and the docks greeted me with a cacophony of peddlers, swindlers, touts, illicit appeals, and cab drivers who I was sure would take over an hour to deliver me to the train station. I was having none of it. I trusted my shoe leather and walked smartly through the streets, past the great lighthouse, and on to the train station a few blocks to the south. By the time I arrived on the platform, I was breathing heavily and sweating, but I was in time for th
e 12:45 train to Paris, Gare du Nord. I purchased a ticket and found my seat with just a few minutes to spare and permitted myself a brief interval of reflection. In my mind, I reviewed all the most common poisons I knew of and their treatment. My medical case was opened and closed thrice as I checked yet again to make sure that I had packed the appropriate medications.
Twelve forty-five came and went. So also did one o’clock and the train did not move. I had not traveled much on the Continent, but Holmes had advised me on numerous occasions that trains in England at least make an effort to be on time. Those in Germany always arrive and depart on the exact minute. French trains, however, leave at random when the conductor has finished his lunch. The French were, to their credit, more reliable than the Spanish or Italians whose trains might or might not adhere to the day let alone to the hour on the schedule.
The train did eventually depart from the station and rolled along over the hills and fields of Picardie. I chatted on and off with my seatmate, who seemed just a bit too inquisitive for my taste. Holmes had warned me that all Frenchmen were either spies or wished they were, and I was undecided whether or not this chap was being friendly or an agent of Holmes’s enemies.
I was relieved when we finally pulled into the Gare du Nord. Baedecker had recommended a small pension conveniently located halfway between the Gare du Nord and the Gare de l’Est, where I would depart from the next morning. I gave my name to the desk, not thinking for a moment that doing so might not be the best idea. The fellow behind the desk immediately looked up at me and broke into a broad grin.
“Mon dieu. Vraiment, le Docteur Watson? The writer? The writer of the stories of the Sherlock Holmes? Merveilleux.”
He turned and retreated into his inner office and came back bearing a copy of Les Aventures de M. Sherlock Holmes. I was not aware that my publisher had arranged for a French translation of my stories and, for a brief, fleeting moment thought that I might soon see another strand of royalties coming from the Continent when it occurred to me that what I was looking at was no doubt a pirated copy. I was fit to be tied and was tempted to rip the chap’s book into pieces, but he was not the culprit and had likely purchased the book in good faith. So, I signed his copy and smiled back at him.
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