Sherlock Holmes

by Lyn McConchie

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  ALSO BY LYN McCONCHIE

  DEDICATION

  A POISONING AT THE PUBLISHER

  THE DREADFUL DIARY

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 2016 by Lyn McConchie

  Published by Wildside Press LLC.

  www.wildsidepress.com

  ALSO BY LYN McCONCHIE

  Sherlock Holmes: Repeat Business

  Sherlock Holmes: Beastly Mysteries

  DEDICATION

  To Neville, who has the good taste to like

  Sherlock Holmes—and my sister.

  A POISONING AT THE PUBLISHER

  1

  I once mentioned—in “The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez,” I believe—the tragedy of the Addletons. I was recently reminded of that when I was sitting, looking out of the window on a bright summer’s day years after that case. It had been another such day almost a decade ago when my gaze went to where a tall, well-set-up-man of late middle age dodged thorough the midday traffic.

  I exclaimed, “If I am not mistaken, that is Sergeant Fellowes. It almost seems as if he is coming here.” I watched him cross the street. “Yes, he is. I wonder why?”

  “One of your army comrades?” Holmes inquired.

  “Yes. He married an Irish girl while he was stationed in Cork. He rose to become sergeant and was well thought of by his men. I knew him in Afghanistan and heard that he had retired about ten years ago.”

  “With a good character, Watson?”

  “Oh indeed, with an excellent character. I believe he returned to work for a wholesaler in vegetables, a man who had long employed several of Fellowes’s relatives. No doubt they spoke for him.” I frowned at Holmes. “He and his family have always been respectable. They are perhaps working class, but not in want, for his parents owned their own house in Loughton, outside London, and it would have passed to Fellowes in due course, since he was their only child. He needs must work, and likely his children as well once they are old enough, yet—”

  Holmes leaned forward slightly, his gaze suddenly intent upon me as he broke in. “Children, Watson: what and how many?”

  “Why, I cannot now be certain, Holmes. I know he had a daughter, a pleasant child named Mary who would be about twenty-one now. And I believe there was a son.”

  Holmes leaned back. “Ah,” was all he said, until presently we heard footsteps upon the stairs and a knock on the door.

  “Visitor for you, Dr. Watson. He says as you’ll know him, a Sergeant Fellowes.”

  I nodded. “Tell him to come in, Mrs. Hudson.” And upon my old acquaintance entering, I sprang up and shook him warmly by the hand.

  “Sergeant Fellowes, my dear chap, it is pleasant to see you again. Will you take a drink? We have tea, and I seem to recall that you did not drink alcohol.”

  I waved him to a spare armchair and he sank down with the air of a man who is utterly weary. He had aged considerably since I had last seen him ten years ago and I wondered at it, for he had always looked younger than his true age. Now he looked to be years older than I knew him to be, and his blue eyes held an unhappy expression.

  ”I thank you, Doctor. A cup of tea would be most welcome, but I will not take it under false pretenses. I did not come to renew old acquaintances, pleasant though that may be, but to ask most urgently for your help.”

  I poured him the tea, offered milk and sugar, passed over the cup and spoke soothingly. “Any help I can give shall be yours, but drink your tea and rest a moment before you begin your tale.”

  Holmes watched our visitor unobtrusively, with an air about him that told me he knew more of the matter than I. Fellowes drank the last of his tea, put the cup aside, and began simply.

  “Doctor, I am in great trouble, and you were the only person who might be able to assist me. It’s my daughter, Mary. You may remember her?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I do, a sweet child. And your wife? She is well?”

  “She is healthy enough, Doctor, but worn down with grief and fear.”

  “Fear?” I exclaimed.

  “Aye. Fear for our daughter’s life. She is like to be murdered, Doctor, and that within weeks if nothing can be done for her.”

  I opened my mouth but Holmes answered. “You mean that she will be executed, Sergeant.”

  “No, sir. It will be murder. Her life was sworn away and it was lies they told. If she is hung it will be murder, for she is innocent.”

  I shut my mouth with a snap while Holmes continued. “She is the Mary Fellowes who was tried last month for the attempted poisoning of the Addleton family, is she not?”

  “Yes, sir. But it was all lies. We brought Mary up as a good girl, sir, and she does not drink, nor lie, nor run about.”

  “They have not accused her of running about, nor of drinking,” Holmes said. “And as to lies, the jury had their own opinion.”

  Fellowes bowed his head. “As well they might, sir. I cannot blame them, since her character was sworn away falsely. Indeed, the evidence was black against her. But I know my daughter; she poisoned no one and now she stands in the shadow of the gallows. Were it not for my employer, Mr. Hemming, a man of substance and standing in Loughton and who has known Mary for much of her life, they would already have hung her.”

  “What has Mr. Hemming to do with this?”

  “Why, sir, his son is in love with Mary and has said that he believes her innocent. For that, his father petitioned the authorities and, using all his influence, managed to obtain a stay of execution for six weeks. I think myself, sir, that the judge was a little uneasy about his verdict. There was but minor true evidence, only the word of a number of people and that not always against Mary.”

  He looked at Holmes. “I know who you are, sir. I came to ask if the doctor could help, but it was in my mind that you are his friend and might take an interest also. I have some savings; I could pay if you would take up the case. If not, I must rely on the doctor who has said he will do all in his power, and I know him for a man who does not go back on his word.”

  He turned to me. “Doctor, you knew Mary when we were in Afghanistan together. Would you think her to be the sort of girl who would poison a family that had been kind to her and for whom she had worked so long? Could you believe that she would have done this out of some momentary pique, without any true grievance?”

  I considered the question as I stared at the carpet. At last I raised my head and looked him in the eyes. “I will tell the truth, Sergeant, though it may not be to your liking. The girl I remember would never have done such a thing, but people change. I feel it unlikely, but I have known such events. However, I would find the charge difficult to accept, and if, as you say, there was little real evidence save the word of some who may have their own reasons for speaking out, then like the judge, I would not be happy to see Mary convicted when she may well be innocent.”

  Sergeant Fellowes’s expression had reflected his emotions as I spoke. Once I was done he nodded. “I wish you were more certain,” he said honestly. “However, you are evenhanded as always. You think there to be a reasonable chance she is unjustly convicted and therefore I appeal to you, Doctor. Can you help me to prove that my Mary did not do this? Will you aid me?” He glanced across at Holmes. “And you also, sir, if you will?”

  Holmes, who had been silent through all this, now asked, “What if she is guilty and our inquiries prove it so?”

  The sergeant drew himself up. “Then, sir, the law must take its course.”

  Holmes studied that proud, hard-set face. “On that agreement, Sergeant Fellowes, Dr. Watson and I shall do our best. I have a few questions for you now.”

  “Ask them, sir.”

  “Watson tells me you had a s
on?”

  Sergeant Fellowes’s face showed nothing but his eyes told a different story. “I had two sons, sir. One died of pneumonia two years gone and the other died earlier. Mary is our only child now.”

  “How old is Mary?”

  “She will be twenty-one on her birthday next month.”

  “Do you approve of your employer’s son?”

  “I do, sir. He’s a good, hard-working lad, sensible and kind. He loves Mary truly and is convinced of her innocence.”

  “What of his father, how does he feel about the marriage?”

  “He supports it, sir. Jack is almost twenty-five and on his birthday he comes into a small inheritance from his grandmother. He and Mary intend to put the money into his father’s business once they have wed. Mr. Jason Hemming intends, upon that and their marriage, to have a suite of rooms partitioned from his house so that they might have their own apartments. His house is far larger than he requires, and if this were done they could have the companionship each of the other, and privacy for his son and daughter-in-law would be obtained as well.”

  “Does Mary have money of her own?”

  “It’s like this, sir. Loughton Hall, the place where she works, isn’t above five miles from my own house, three miles if she takes a shortcut over the fields. She is given a day off each month, and if she is able to get away early she walks home that evening to spend the night and next day with her mother and me. Sometimes she stays the next night also if the weather is fine and daylight comes early enough, since by rising at four a.m. she can walk back in time to begin her work at six. Because of this custom her master paid her a shilling more a month to cover the food she did not eat at their table, and the coal that need not be provided for her bedroom fire.

  “She would have given that money to us, saying that it was owed, but I refused, telling her to save it against her wedding or any time when it might be required. She has worked for Mr. Addleton for near seven years and all that time she has saved from her wages, sir. Not only that shilling each month, but another four shillings, so that today she has almost twenty pounds to her account.”

  Holmes nodded approvingly. “That is a good sum. What did she plan to do with it?”

  “She intended to add it to Jack’s inheritance to buy a share in his father’s business. He would receive a hundred pounds on his twenty-fifth birthday, and Mr. Jason Hemming said that for the total amount he would allocate them a tenth share of the net profits besides a wage for Jack’s work, and another for Mary’s work, should she wish to work in their business until she has children.”

  I caught Holmes gaze. No doubt he was thinking, as I was, that these people were admirable, each being considerate of the others.

  “And Mary’s education?”

  “She went to school until she was fourteen and began work.” He flushed. “I did not want my girl to be ignorant, Mr. Holmes. Some of those both in the army and afterwards said that it would give her ideas above her station, but better that than she be resigned to be a drudge and nothing else. Yes, she is maid to the Addletons, but she also works on their household accounts. And when she marries Jack, she will work in his father’s business as a clerk. He says that like a farmer, the best manure is the owner’s boots on the land, and so it is with any business. If Mary does some of the accounts she will come to know if the work is well done.”

  “A wise man,” Holmes murmured.

  “Aye. He’s a clever man and not one to mind that his daughter-in-law has schooling, or to think that she’ll interfere without cause. His acceptance is one of the reasons I would be well pleased to see my lass wed to Jack.” He grinned wryly. “In fact, I think that he finds my Mary a bargain.”

  “How so?” I queried, and the sergeant’s smile widened.

  “Why, Doctor, he has a house that is close to a mansion and considerable money. He is known and esteemed locally, but no family would allow their daughter to marry a son whose father came up from a smallholding, a man whose mother was, shall we say, not all she should have been. Jason Hemming sold the smallholding when his father died from drink; he bought wasteland and a big old house that was falling down. He got the estate for no more than the smallholding brought, and he obtained a loan to buy vans to drive to London. He began buying vegetables from local farmers and taking the vegetables in bulk to the London market. In the evenings he fixed the house, working all the hours God sends a man. He married late, a spinster schoolteacher who made certain before she died that her son was educated.”

  Holmes pursed his lips. “So you believe that no girl of good family, even one of lower middle class, would marry the son of a father with that history. Yet he wants an educated woman for his son, and one who brings something to the marriage, so that his grandsons may rise farther?”

  “I do,” the sergeant agreed. “My girl is educated, sensible, and has shown she can save and not waste her money. Besides, he likes her, and then too, once my wife and I are gone, she’ll inherit our house.”

  He was right. It was unusual for a man of working class to own his own home, but I remembered the sergeant telling me once—he had been proud of this and had gone into some detail—that his mother had received the house from her mother, who had been a long-time nurse to a local family’s children. That family had gained the house from some earlier marriage settlement, but it was small, a mere single bedroom, in ill repair, and on a corner of land of no value and inconveniently placed. So when the sergeant’s grandmother retired they gave it to her along with a halfpension, thus saving money. Her son had repaired it, adding a second bedroom, and later on he expanded it with a parlor and a storeroom beside the kitchen.

  I mentioned some of this and Sergeant Fellowes nodded. “Aye, Doctor, the house has grown somewhat since I told you of it. We have now three bedrooms, with all necessary utility rooms and a stable, carriage house, and feed shed behind. My father planted a large circle of trees about it for shelter against the wind, and inside them he planted fruit and nut trees. I have a large vegetable garden growing on good soil that I had brought in. Indeed, I sell some of my fruit and vegetable surplus to Mr. Hemming. With that and the produce I retain for our own use, and my wages, we do well. I have money put by, sir,” he said, looking straight at Holmes. “I’m ready to spend it all if you can prove Mary to be innocent in this matter.”

  I looked hopefully at my friend, who considered all we had heard before making up his mind. “I shall look into the case a little deeper. If I find that an injustice has been done I am prepared to take the commission,” he said, and held up a hand as the sergeant began thanking us. “If I think Miss Fellowes to be guilty, I shall say nothing to anyone but I shall withdraw from the assignment. That way your friends are free to continue to believe it a miscarriage of justice. Will that suit you?”

  The sergeant said that it would. “I’d rather you thought my girl innocent, sir. But I’ll settle for your working on my behalf. There’s this also, sir; there’s more than me has come to wonder. Let you look about and you’ll find it so.”

  I wondered what he meant by that and resolved that I would ask Holmes once we were alone. We saw the sergeant out. He walked away with a longer stride and a happier countenance. Once he was clear of the house I turned to Holmes.

  “What do you know of all this, Holmes?”

  He lit a pipe and commenced his account of the case. It had been so little noticed by the London newspapers that I had overlooked it. It was like Holmes that he had not only read what was written, he had given it some attention.

  I said so, and he informed me that a police acquaintance had been involved in the case. Upon the man asking for help with a counterfeiting ring, he had also, in the course of that, told Holmes much of the Loughton Hall case as well.

  “On first glance, Watson, it is an unpleasant and commonplace attempt at murder. Mary Fellowes went as a maid and sometimes accounts clerk to her employer a few weeks less than seven years ago. Mr. Addleton is a publisher who chose to work in Loughton beca
use there is an excellent train service up to London and houses are cheaper. His company is called Loughton Hall Publishers. The household consists of Mr. Addleton and his wife, his father who visits regularly, sometimes staying for days or even weeks at a time, and his wife’s mother who lives with them. There are also two apprentices, a Jonathan Turner, and a Michael Bishop; they are respectively eighteen and twenty-two years of age. They have a cook and a second maid as well. They have no scullery maid such as would be usual, Mrs. Addleton not wishing the additional expense. Therefore the cook is paid a little more and mostly does that work as well. I am told that she thinks it demeaning but accepts the work for the supplementary sum she receives. They have an additional bedroom beyond what is required for family and staff, which is now and again used to accommodate a visiting author of sufficient eminence.”

  “So they are in a good way of business?” I asked.

  “Yes. I understand that the work of printing the books is carried out in London, and for that reason Mr. Addleton goes up one day each week to approve new editions and to take them more work.”

  “So what is it that he does in Loughton?”

  “He sees authors, considers the books offered him for publication, agrees contracts, edits their work, arranges for such art as may be required, and in general is the man who buys the work, prepares it, and arranges everything to do with its being published. Once that work is complete the manuscript is taken to London, galleys printed off, which may then be corrected if need be, and an edition printed. His apprentices act as copy editors, messengers, and do the lesser work that such an enterprise requires. They would be moderately well educated, and would have come to him with good characters and references. His father, who worked as a publisher himself, assists on the occasions when he stays for some time.”

  “What sort of work do they publish?”

  Holmes’s mouth quirked up at one corner. “They produce learned tomes of scientific interest and treatises on various subjects, but since there is less money in such work, once the son became fully involved they became desirous of making more profit and began to produce ‘horrid novels’ by various authors, such work having an extremely ready sale. In the past three years their authors have included a ‘Miss Gibson’—believed to be of a noble family—whose work sells in great numbers to idle housewives. The books are romances, yet relatively harmless, I suppose.”