Holmes appeared not to notice the landscaping or look of the house and was making a beeline to the front door. He gave a friendly, rhythmical knock on the door and pasted a smile on his face as it opened. The young blonde maid who answered was most assuredly not English, as no English girl engaged in service would dream of wearing a uniform that not only was suggestive of an Alpine milk maid but displayed so vast an expanse of generous bosom.
“Guten tag,” she said pleasantly. “Please to come in. May I make announcement to der Knappe of our visitor?”
Holmes handed her his card, and I did likewise. She glanced at them, and her eyes widened.
“Heiliger Strohsack!” Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Beeindruckend!” She gave a smile and a stiff bow, turned and disappeared into the back of the house. We stood for several minutes in the entry hall glancing about at the variety of items mounted on the walls and side tables. There was a photograph of an impressive looking young man in uniform, a crucifix, some paintings in the recent European style that I considered smudged, a portrait of the Queen and, on the side table, a large pile of recent newspapers from the Continent and a large bust of Beethoven.
Holmes focused his gaze on the furnishings and photographs until his concentration was interrupted by the entrance of the master of the estate. A tall, broad-shouldered man of about fifty approached us. He was quite a handsome fellow, with a full head of bushy silver hair and attractive blue eyes.
“Well now, isn’t this just the cat’s pajamas!” he said in a refined Oxford accent as he approached us. “Is it possible? By the great detective Sherlock Holmes my humble home is visited, and the famous writer, Doctor Watson. Rather takes the egg on a sunny afternoon. To what do I owe this honor? Please, gentlemen, come in and be seated. Some brandy, perhaps. Or shall I have our Swiss miss organize a cup of tea? Please, do come in and yourselves make comfortable.”
We entered a finely appointed front parlor and were seated.
“Permit me to introduce myself,” he said. “I am Percy Sheridan, formerly of Leeds and London, and now of Surrey. But then, since you are Sherlock Holmes, you must have already known that, I make the assumption.”
He laughed at his pleasantry, and we exchanged a minute of idle chitchat about Holmes’s reputation before Holmes cut off the exchange.
“Forgive my lack of grace,” he said, “but we are not here to talk about the weather. I have a more serious concern that I must address to you.”
“Jolly good, then,” responded Mr. Sheridan with a smile. “Then please, proceed.”
“I came to Surrey because of your neighbors, the Cunninghams.”
Sheridan responded with a shrug. “You don’t say, Mr. Holmes. This does not surprise me. If you told me that you had investigated them and that they were about to be arrested, thrown in prison, and hanged, I could only say that it was about time. Scoundrels, both of them. Please tell me that soon they will be arrested.”
“No, I cannot tell you that. What I will tell you is that it is more likely that they will be murdered if they remain in their house.”
“Indeed? Well, now, quite frankly, I must say that is jolly good news. Perhaps the world would be a better place if that were to be made to happen.”
Holmes gave the fellow a bit of a look. “That is not exactly a charitable thing to say about one’s neighbor.”
Sheridan laughed. “It is only what I would say about these neighbors. And it is no more than any of their neighbors would say about them. The good yeomen of this town do not like any Johnny-come-lately outsiders, myself included, but Squire Cunningham with a passion they hate, and his son even more. If some day you find them done in, you will have no fewer than a hundred local Lushingtons to suspect, every one of them the honor claiming.” He laughed again.
“Let me assist you,” he continued. “A start on your list of suspects. Number one,” he said, extending his thumb, “would have to be our fine local constable. Forrester’s his name. The younger junior squire seduced his sister and ruined her. So, he’s been heard saying that he’d like to kill the blackguard. Number two,” he added, extending his index finger, “would be the barkeep. His dear widowed mother was swindled by the older squire, and the poor man lost his entire inheritance. And number three,” he concluded, adding his middle finger, “might very well be the vicar, who has no specific complaint, but is outraged by the debauchery and misery those two have visited upon his faithful flock. There, is that enough of a start for you, Mr. Holmes?” Again, he laughed merrily.
Holmes smiled in return. “And what about you, Mr. Sheridan. Your dispute over property would give you a place on your list, would it not?”
That brought about a loud guffaw. “Aha! Our detective has been doing his homework. Jolly good. Why of course, you can add me. But in all modesty, I could not claim a post above number ten. Lawyers from both sides may be at it with both hands, but all the stake that is of me is a parcel of land, not the destruction of my honor or the theft of my inheritance. But by all means, do not leave me off your list.” Again, the laughter.
Holmes did not join in the laughter or even smile. “In truth, sir, the danger is not from the local citizenry, sir. I have reason to believe that someone from the Continent may arrive and seek to do them harm.”
“You don’t say. The man’s name, do you happen to have it? I assure you that the keys to the town he will be awarded.”
We chatted for several more minutes, but it was obvious to me that Holmes had had enough of this jolly chap from the North. We excused ourselves, claiming that our dinner would be waiting and returned to The Hills of Lorraine. Holmes walked in silence, his hands thrust into the pockets of his coat and his chin nearly resting on his chest.
Our hosts did not join us for dinner, and it was served by the moon-faced English maid, who did her best to be pleasant and offer some meaningless chit-chat, but Holmes was having none of it. He glowered at the schnitzel and sauerkraut that was served to him and ate the entire meal in silence.
Chapter Five
Not Wanted,
So Back to 221B
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the same young maid assisted us with our departure from the manor house. She appeared to be thoroughly intimidated by Sherlock Holmes, but she stood beside me for a moment and spoke quietly.
“We’re so sorry to see you leave us, Dr. Watson,” she said. “When we saw the two of you arrive, all of the staff got our hopes up that something was about to change here. It is a terribly unhappy situation we are all in.”
I smiled at her. “My dear, you will just have to wait it out for another few months, then your five years will be up, and you will be free to seek another position.”
“I suppose so, sir,” she sighed. “But if you hear of the squires’ dying from drinking poisoned tea, you can have the entire lot, all twelve of us, arrested.”
For a brief second, a thought flashed through my mind. Having twelve people all conspire together and jointly commit a murder would be a splendid basis for a mystery story.
I smiled again, and as I was old enough to be her father, I put my arm around her shoulder and offered some bland words of encouragement. William Kirwan loaded our valises into the carriage but did not join us on the return trip to the station. As we passed out of the gate, I noticed two large Teutonic-looking men standing guard. At the Reigate station, I saw another three of them standing and shaking hands and introducing themselves to each other. I concluded that the squires had indeed hired some of their countrymen to guard their estate.
“We have some time,” said Holmes, “before the train to London departs. Let us pay a brief visit to the local constable. He’s just next door.”
The local constable, a friendly fellow named Stuart Forrester, welcomed us to his station. He appeared to be quite pleased to meet Sherlock Holmes but was obviously perplexed as to why Holmes would be visiting his village. Holmes explained the reasons for our visit and gave a very stern warning that a murderer would soon be making a visit to R
eigate with the intent of doing in the younger Cunningham, and possibly the father as well.
“Very good, Mr. Holmes,” said Constable Forrester. “But having one more person to suspect of murdering those two blackguards would extend my list to over twenty. The local folks do not like those two at all. And if a stranger comes to do the deed, I will guarantee that he will be among friends here for the rest of his life.”
“So I have been led to believe,” said Holmes, with a grim smile. “But please note; the person most likely to appear is not a man. It will be a young woman and a highly attractive one at that.”
Forrester raised his eyebrows. “Well now, wouldn’t that just take the biscuit. You say a pretty young lass might come to Reigate and murder those scoundrels. There would be a score of young local lasses and a few widows who would nominate her for sainthood if that were to happen.”
“It is not my role,” said Holmes, “to render judgment on the victims. I only beseech you to be vigilant so that a crime will be prevented. May I count on you to respond accordingly?”
“Of course, you may, Mr. Holmes. I will swear on my honor that should I see a beautiful young woman in town who is unknown amongst us and who may have come with murderous intent … well … I swear that I will declare that I am too sick to continue working for the rest of the day and will be found recovering my health at the Bull’s Head.”
Holmes glared at the constable who met him eye to eye and said nothing.
“Very well, Constable Forrester,” said Holmes. “I believe I understand what you are telling me. Good day, sir.”
“Good day, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. Sorry I could not be of more use to you.”
For the first half hour of the return trip to Victoria, Holmes sat in silence. As we passed Croydon, he looked up at me.
“Those Prussian veterans will most likely be useless,” he muttered. “She will get past the guards and kill them both within a fortnight. Mark my words. They are as good as dead.”
“Is there not anything you can do to protect them?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I cannot force anyone to become my client, least of all a couple of pig-headed Germans. If I might offer you a turn of phrase for your notebook, you could say that I predicted that both of them will become eyesores.”
I chuckled at Holmes’s gallows humor, and we continued the rest of the journey back to Baker Street in silence.
The next three days passed uneventfully. I tended to my patients whilst Holmes puttered away with his chemistry experiments and readings. It was not difficult for me to see that his mind was elsewhere and from time to time I observed him clenching his fists and shaking his head.
On the morning of the fourth day, as we sat quietly enjoying the delectable breakfast Mrs. Hudson had prepared for us, the bell sounded at the door on Baker Street. A minute later, Mrs. Hudson entered.
“It’s the Inspector, Mr. Holmes. I told him you were still at your breakfast, but he said he was coming up anyway. Shall I show him in?”
Holmes pushed his chair back from the table and sighed. “Yes, you may. And you may as well make him a fresh cup of tea and bring him some biscuits and jam. I suspect he has been up for several hours and will not be in a good humor.”
Inspector Lestrade appeared almost immediately. As predicted by Holmes, his ferret-like face was even darker than usual.
Without bothering to rise from his chair or even look up, Holmes spoke into his tea cup.
“Good morning, Inspector. Nasty business, that, down in Surrey, what say? Got them good in the old eyeball, eh.”
I was looking up at Lestrade even if Holmes was not. A flush of anger spread across his face, and I heard him suck in a deep breath of self-control before speaking.
“I did not come here to endure your taunts, Holmes. I have two murders on my hands, which is bad enough, but I am informed that Sherlock Holmes met with the victims three days ago and warned the local constable that they were about to be murdered. Is that correct, Holmes?”
He sat down on the settee and folded his arms across his chest. The dutiful Mrs. Hudson handed him a cup of tea, and he graciously thanked her before returning his scowl to Holmes.
“Yes, Inspector,” said Holmes. “That is correct, and I suspect that the murderer got clean away with the deed. Is that also correct?”
“No,” said Lestrade. “That is wrong. We have him locked up behind bars already, but I need a statement from you. We had to lean on the carriage driver a bit hard, but he admitted that he had heard the man-servant, a Mr. William Kirwan, say that he would like to kill the two victims, and he said so in your presence. So, I need you to corroborate. Did he say that to you, Holmes? Yes, or no?”
Holmes’s mouth involuntary opened and a look of shock and dismay spread across his face.
“No, Inspector, no. You have it all wrong.”
“What do you mean ‘No’ Holmes. Are you denying that William Kirwan said that to you? Did he or didn’t he?”
“That is what he said, but he is not the murderer.”
“He had,” said Lestrade, “the motive, the means, and the opportunity. That is what we look for, isn’t it, Holmes. You’ve just confirmed that he said he wanted to kill them and two days later, they’re dead. Other than the simple maid, he was the only person in the house when the deaths occurred. What do you mean telling me that he’s not the murderer?”
Sherlock Holmes very seldom if ever loses his composure, but I had never seen him so flustered and ill at ease as he was whilst being cross-questioned by Lestrade.
“That man … Mr. Kirwan … he is innocent. He is a good man. You have the wrong person. He could not have done it.”
“It is rather obvious to me, Holmes that he most certainly could have done it. You’re going to have to do better than that. Now, I have a statement here that says that Sherlock Holmes acknowledges hearing Mr. William Kirwan, the man-servant of the Squires Cunningham, father and son, clearly and distinctly state that he wished to kill his masters. Kindly sign it, and I’ll be on my way. And please thank Mrs. Hudson for the tea.”
Holmes drew a deep breath and sat back in his chair. He seemed to have recovered his self-control and spoke in deliberate, measured tones to Lestrade.
“Inspector Lestrade,” he said. “You and I have had our differences from time to time.”
“That is an understatement, Holmes. Get on with it.”
“I am, however, entirely certain that you know, beyond any doubt, that in spite of our differences, both of us have devoted our lives to the pursuit of justice.”
“And I do not have time for a Sunday School lesson, Holmes.”
“Very well then. I will tell you that I am entirely certain, beyond any doubt, that William Kirwan is innocent of the murder of the squires, and that if he is punished for the crime, you will have sent an innocent man to the gallows.”
“The evidence is all stacked up against him, Holmes. If he didn’t do it, then who did?”
Holmes rose from his chair and walked over to the window, slowly lit a cigarette and took two slow drafts. Lestrade was showing signs of impatience.
“Holmes, I am getting old waiting. I have two murders to deal with, and if you have evidence, then I need to hear it. Now.”
“Have you ever,” said Holmes, speaking to the bay window and the cloudy sky beyond, “Heard the name, Annie Morrison?’’
Lestrade’s glare could have burned holes into Holmes’s back.
“Of course, I have heard the name, Holmes. You and I are connected to the same web of rumors. Are you suggesting that this chimera of international crime, this avenging angel who has been a nightmare on the Continent and in America, but never once appeared, even in a dream, in Britain, suddenly dropped out of the sky and into Surrey, did in two squires, and then vanished? Are you taking me for such a fool as to believe that? What’s next? Dracula in Derbyshire? Beelzebub in Bucks? What sort of fool do you think I am?”
Holmes turned back, came over and sat acr
oss from him. Slowly and patiently he presented the evidence he had assembled and the conclusions he had deduced so far in this gruesome case. Lestrade interrupted him rather rudely many times and cross-questioned him quite aggressively. Holmes endured the disrespect and relentlessly piled observations and deductions on top of each other until the expression on Lestrade’s face softened and began to nod his head slowly. Finally, he stood up and walked slowly toward the door, but before getting there, he reached into a pocket in his suit coat, extracted an envelope, and dropped into onto a side table.
“I reserved a cabin for the three of us on the noon train to Surrey,” he said. “I told Constable Forrester to disturb nothing and keep the room chilled, and that I would be there by one thirty and would be bringing Sherlock Holmes with me.”
Holmes looked positively befuddled.
“I beg your pardon?” he said.
Lestrade turned back to face him. “Look here, Holmes. I was not born yesterday. I’ve been in this game far too long not to know the difference between an open and shut murder case, and one that is apparently open and shut and into which Sherlock Holmes has already stuck his bloody nose. As soon as I was informed that you had been poking around, I knew jolly well that there was something rotten in the state of Denmark. I’ll see you at a quarter to noon on the Victoria platform. We have rooms reserved at the inn.”
Holmes, irresistibly I could tell, smiled at him. “I look forward to the excursion,” he said, “But you might think about Macbeth rather than Hamlet.”
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Five: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition Page 29