Holmes mentioned that he had business in Micklethorpe. Apparently the household still possessed a single aged horse and a primitive carriage, a dog-cart, and Lady Verr offered to have Hamswell drive us. Holmes, however, said he preferred to walk. Thus we set out, yet again, on foot. This was our third day in Yorkshire, and the fresh air and exercise had truly rejuvenated my cousin. He had also cut back on tobacco. He had smoked a few cigarettes the evening before with Lady Verr, but noticing my stern look, he had limited the quantity.
It was over an hour’s walk, and he was rather taciturn. I suspected that he was mulling over all that we had seen during our brief stay and especially those he had referred to as our dramatis personae. A truly bizarre bunch they were! Even young Selton and Miss Marsh were odd, although in a much more appealing way than their seniors.
When we neared the village, Holmes spoke at last. “What would be an obvious reason for your wishing to see your professional counterpart in the village?” I stared at him. “I mean Dr. Thorpe. What would be an excuse for us to call upon him?”
“Well, given the size and the location of Micklethorpe, he can hardly be the equivalent of a specialized Harley Street physician who charges several guineas for a visit. Many modern doctors like Michelle and me have training both in medicine and surgery, but I suspect he assumes all three traditional roles and acts as physician, surgeon and apothecary. You are supposed to be resting and recuperating here. Perhaps we could ask him for a revitalizing tonic. Without a doubt, he will have several, but for heaven’s sake, we must quickly dispose of it! Patent medicines are—at best—without effect.”
“Excellent, Henry, a perfect excuse!”
“But why do you wish to see him?”
“It will be obvious soon enough.”
We found the good doctor at home in an aged stone cottage. His sitting room also served as consultation room and dispensary. Along one wall were shelves lined with bottles and jars of every shape and color, each with a label on them. Dr. Thorpe was a tall, thin man of about sixty wearing a dark-gray jacket and waistcoat with a golden watch chain dangling between its pockets. His face below his forehead was browned, with an obvious line, and I did not need to be Sherlock Holmes to realize he must wear a hat when he traveled about the countryside making calls on horseback. His hair still had a little brown showing round his ears, but his mustache was completely white. He gazed at us through thick rectangular spectacles as I told him of Holmes’s malady, then set down his clay pipe and stood up.
“I have just the thing, Dr. Vernier.” He hesitated, staring at Holmes. “Not suffering from any male weaknesses, are we? Lack of desire, lack of vitality, that sort of thing?” Holmes shook his head resolutely. “So, something for general vitality. Yes, I have just the thing.” He took down two small bottles and a brown glass vial. “I shall just mix some for you. Three drops morning and evening, and in a few days you will be a new man.”
Holmes nodded. “I believe you know the lady with whom we are staying.”
“Indeed? Who might that be?”
“Lady Verr.”
Doubtless this was a test, and it had a dramatic effect. The doctor quickly set down the bottles, put one hand on the big table and gave a great sigh. “Of course I know her—of course! Good heavens, I shall never forget… You must have heard of the tragedy?”
“Her husband’s suicide?” Holmes asked.
He nodded. “Dear me, yes. A ghastly business. Just last year. Never in all my years…” He had gone pale.
“Perhaps you should sit down for a moment, Dr. Thorpe,” I said.
“No, no, I shall be fine, but—perhaps a drop of sherry—for medicinal purposes. It is late afternoon, nearly time. Perhaps you gentlemen would join me for a glass before I finish my preparation?”
We nodded, and he went to a table where he poured some sherry into three small glasses. He handed one to each of us, then took his own and gestured at a sofa of worn purple velvet. “Have a seat, if you please.” He sat in a nearby chair and took a big sip. “Lord and Lady Verr. Such nobility, such breeding—they had everything! Yet, what did it matter? A ghastly nightmare indeed.”
I had sat and took a sip of sherry. It was horribly sweet, something I would never willingly choose. Holmes swallowed some, and I could tell he felt the same. “I have heard you were actually there,” Holmes said.
“So I was, Mr. Holmes. So I was.”
“And he used a revolver?”
“So he did.” Thorpe had gone paler still and took a big swallow of sherry. “I suppose it’s odd that… But I was never trained as a surgeon, after all. Oh, I have picked up enough of it over the years to manage. One must do what one must do, but the simple fact is that I have always been troubled by the sight of blood. And to actually see a living, breathing human being shoot himself!” He shuddered. “Blowing one’s brains out is not merely a description, gentlemen.”
I grimaced slightly. “I know what you mean, Dr. Thorpe. I was trained in both medicine and surgery, but I still have little stomach for the latter. My wife, on the other hand—she is also a doctor—absolutely nothing bothers her.”
He stared at me incredulously. “Your wife is a doctor? I had heard rumors. It is actually possible, then?”
“Yes. And she is a very good doctor.”
He shook his head. “Amazing. We live in strange times.”
“So you saw the whole thing?” Holmes asked.
“I did. I had visited him once before. He was weary and listless, but he had no fever, and his pulse was normal. He had little use for doctors, but his wife was concerned for his health. The second time, she warned me that he seemed irrational, that he was obsessed with the idea she was unfaithful, that she had a lover. She swore to me before God that she had been true to him, and I believe her, gentlemen. She was not an adulteress. No, it’s impossible to even imagine.”
“How long were you with him before he shot himself?”
The directness of the question made Thorpe wince. “Not long. Five minutes at most. It went as she predicted. He cursed her with every imprecation for betraying him and making him a laughing stock. I tried to tell him he was mistaken, and briefly I feared he would turn on me. However, she upbraided him and told him I was only trying to help bring him to his senses. ‘Why must you torment us both so!’ she sobbed. I thought this must bring him round, but he only laughed and called her devil and…” His words trailed away.
“And?” Holmes asked.
The doctor was lost in thought, his forehead scrunched up. “‘Worse than whore.’ He actually said that—that even a harlot was better than her.” He shook his head. “Forgive me for saying such filth, even if I am only echoing what I heard.”
Holmes had leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a familiar intensity. “Not at all, Dr. Thorpe. Did he say anything else? Did he say anything about her lover?”
“Not… not exactly. He did say something about a ‘black-haired devil,’ yes, and later ‘swarthy demon.’ But at that point he no longer seemed sane.”
“Did anything in particular actually seem to make him shoot himself?”
Thorpe was still frowning and staring into space. “His lady… She had begun to weep. She told him he would drive both of them mad. Then… then… she seemed to rally. She smiled at him, she actually smiled at him, and begged him to be done with it all. ‘End this,’ she said. ‘End it. One way or another. It cannot go on this way.’ He stared at her, then seized the revolver—I was in terror, Mr. Holmes—I thought he was going to shoot us both. Instead he put the barrel against his forehead and pressed the trigger.” He shook his head wildly. “You cannot imagine how loud a pistol shot is in a small room. It was unbearable!” He finished his sherry, then stood. “I must have another.”
Holmes sat back, even as he tapped his fingertips together twice. “I am sorry to bring back such painful memories, Dr. Thorpe. One last question. Where was the revolver when you entered the room?”
“Oh, it was lying on his desk
. I noticed it immediately. I thought of trying to grab it, but I am an old man, and I knew Lord Verr would be much quicker. Also, he might take such an action the wrong way.”
“Well, certainly you could not have prevented the tragedy. Clearly he was insane.”
Thorpe nodded. “Exactly, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes sipped the sherry, his distaste for it obvious to me. “I suppose, given your many years in the neighborhood, that you must be well acquainted with the Marsh family?”
“Yes, of course.” He sighed. “There again—truly, the family seems cursed.” Holmes glanced at me, one eyebrow rising. “Robert and his lady, both taken down in their prime by the influenza, just a little over three years ago. I have never seen anything sadder. Miss Diana left only with the grandfather, with Herbert. Diana was quite ill herself, but the old man nursed her back to health. Somehow he alone had completely escaped the influenza, but two years later his heart gave out, and poor Diana was left all alone. How lucky that her aunt has returned to take care of her! They can comfort each other for their losses.”
Holmes nodded thoughtfully. “And where was Lady Verr during all these illnesses, Dr. Thorpe?”
“She had spent the last ten years on the Continent, mostly in Italy I believe. Lord Verr was a diplomat, but apparently the Crown decided to dispense with his services.”
“And Lady Verr never came home to visit?”
“No.”
“Even during her father’s last illness?”
“No. His death was something of a surprise. Oh, he was old and had problems with his heart, but there is never any telling how long someone may actually last.” He glanced at me. “You must have noticed that, Dr. Vernier.”
I nodded. “Indeed I have.”
“So Lady Verr returned shortly after her father’s death?”
“Yes, it was last spring. They leased a home between here and Whitby.”
“Odd,” Holmes said. “Why did they not go to Diana’s Grove?”
Dr. Thorpe nodded. “Ah, that was because Lady Verr did not want her niece to have to endure her husband’s mad ravings. She told me as much.”
“Lord Verr was a baron. I wonder, too, that they did not go to his estate in Lincolnshire.”
“Hard times, Mr. Holmes! Hard times. They had leased the family home, and he was hopelessly in debt. I am certain that also contributed to his melancholia.”
“You seem to know a great deal about the family—and especially Lady Verr.”
A slight flush appeared in his cheeks. “With all her troubles, the lady needed someone in whom to confide. I was only too happy to provide a sympathetic ear. She is a lovely and charming woman, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes nodded, his face carefully neutral. “Indeed she is.”
“I first knew her when…” He laughed. “Arabella was about ten, and Robert was thirteen. He was the serious one, and she was something of a little devil. Has she told you about her beetle collection, Mr. Holmes? Ah, well, she probably did not tell you that her hobby began at the age of ten! Her brother tried to stop her—he did not like the idea of trapping and killing insects, but she outwitted him. I remember visiting the family one time when Robert had the croup, and she insisted on showing me her butterflies.” He shook his head, glancing at me. “Women doctors, incredible! Lady Verr would have made an excellent one.”
I smiled and nodded, even though I thought he was absolutely wrong. Michelle and Arabella might superficially resemble each other on the outside, but the inside was another matter entirely.
“And you must also know Miss Diana Marsh quite well,” Holmes added.
Thorpe nodded, his look rather wistful. “So I do. A sweet, lovely girl.” He shook his head sadly. “But so many losses at such a young age! I think the saddest sight I have ever seen was Diana and her grandfather at her mother and father’s funeral. Neither of them wept. They were long past that, positively numb and exhausted with grief. Life has not been kind to her.”
I nodded. “I hope her luck changes.”
Thorpe smiled. “But it has—it certainly has!” My face must have shown my puzzlement, because he explained: “Her aunt, Dr. Vernier—her aunt. The situation is ideal for them both. They are no longer alone.” He finished his second glass of sherry and stood resolutely. “Well, I must see to your tonic, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes also stood. “One last thing, Dr. Thorpe. Would you happen to know the name of the Marsh family solicitor? Someone in Whitby, I would assume.”
“Yes, yes—Fitch and Fitch, it is. The father, Cedric, is about my age; the son, Gerald, twenty-five years his junior.”
We soon stepped outside, Holmes in possession of a small bottle wrapped in brown paper. Once we were well away from the cottage I seized Holmes’s arm. “You do not believe—surely this is nothing like the Grimswell case? Lady Verr cannot possibly have murdered her brother, his wife or her father?”
Holmes shrugged. “No, I think not, but I wanted to rule it out. Murder by influenza seems unlikely at best, and she was out of the country. The same would be true regarding her father’s death.”
“But her husband?”
“Obviously he shot himself, but… ‘But’—aye, there’s the word. My profession as a consulting detective has exposed me to the darkest and most sordid side of human nature, so much so that my prejudice is always for the worst. Thus, all my instincts tell me there must be a lover, but it is as Sir Nathaniel said—there are no viable candidates, none. Also, if that were the case, she would hardly have gone to live at Diana’s Grove, where a suspicious male in the household would be so noticeable. No, I may have to accept that there is no lover—although I do not have to like it.”
He said this last as if annoyed, and I laughed. “Furious because there is no lurking Lothario! Yes, your profession has ruined you.”
He shrugged. “We shall see. And now we have another visit to pay, Henry—to the local vicar.”
“The local vicar?”
The Reverend, Mr. Tobias Sloap, lived with his wife in a cottage next to the church and its cemetery. She was plump and petite, he a towering beanstalk with long white hands and the trained smile of the professional clergyman. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Incredible! Incredible! And to what, in heaven’s name, do we owe the honor of this visit?” He turned to his wife. “Annabelle, bring a glass of sherry for the gentlemen and myself!”
Holmes and I forced ourselves to smile. Soon we were sitting in a perfect little parlor with doilies scattered here and there, small painted figurines, and a plaque celebrating the Queen’s golden jubilee hung on the wall. The sherry was sweet, but not quite so wretched as Dr. Thorpe’s. I hoped we wouldn’t be calling on anyone else! The only decent sherry in the neighborhood seemed to be at Lesser Hill, which was currently off limits.
We briefly discussed the weather and the idyllic countryside, but then Holmes got to the point. “Vicar, I have heard something about cattle and sheep mysteriously disappearing from the moors.”
Sloap’s face lit up. “Have you, now! It is indeed a frequent topic of conversation among my flock.”
“Is it? It had occurred to me… Remnants and ruins of the Celts are common in Britain. Diana’s Grove, where we are staying has a celebrated history going back even before the Romans and the Celts. Perhaps you know its alternative name?”
Sloap nodded, smiling. “The lair of the White Worm.”
“Would you know…? Are you familiar with a group called the Ancient Order of Druids?”
“Certainly, I am, Mr. Holmes. There was a lodge at Oxford when I was at Christ Church. I had friends who were members.”
“It is quite popular in London, too, although there are now two competing lodges. However, they are, as you must know, only fraternal societies. They actually forbid any discussion of religion at their meetings.”
I smiled. “A civilized notion.”
“However,” Holmes continued, “there are other groups which have actually tried to revive the ancient Celtic religion, a dif
ficult task, since so little is known about that religion or its Druids. Wales has been a strong center of such activity.”
Sloap nodded. “Yes.”
Holmes hesitated only an instant. “And would you know, Vicar, if any such groups are active in your parish?”
Sloap smiled and nodded. “There is one, indeed, Mr. Holmes. It is supposed to be a grand secret, but I know something about it. One of my parishioners has been an intermittent participant, and he keeps me informed of their activities.”
Holmes stared closely at him. “You surprise me, sir.”
Sloap shrugged. “I am a shepherd, a keeper of souls. It is my business to know such things.”
“And does this local manifestation also involve the so-called White Worm, a great serpent or dragon?”
“Yes.”
“I have heard that people have seen green lights or even gigantic white shapes in the grove.”
“That is also true.” He shook his head. “I do not find such reports credible. If there is any truth to it, I would suspect some prankster with a lantern or two and some green glass.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Well, the local farmers have always been a superstitious lot, although they don’t realize how far back their superstitions go. However, this particular manifestation began only last year. Three animals disappeared last autumn, in October and November, a sort of prelude. Of course, the weather in the heart of winter is so dreadful many animals and most people stay indoors most of the time. However, the livestock disappearances resumed with greater frequency early in March.”
“Let me mention a few names. Tell me if they might be involved. Edgar Caswall.”
Sloap shook his head. “No, no—he is his own favorite divinity.”
I smiled faintly. “You noticed that, did you?”
“A single visit when he moved into the neighborhood sufficed. The man is addled.”
“Lady Verr. Miss Diana Marsh. Mr. Adam Selton. Sir Nathaniel de Salis.”
The White Worm Page 11