I rose to my feet. “Let us not delay an instant.”
“It is late, Watson. We would be intruding on a family readying for bed and that is not the way to achieve results. Let us be up and about early, first to Sergeant Fellowes, and then, perhaps to the Denhams’ home. Fellowes, too, will be able to give us direction to the home of the girl Miss Mary supposedly attacked. As we seek them out, I shall purchase the newspapers that make those claims and hope to be able to prove them false.”
“And then?”
“If we have such proof we can visit their editors and say unless the claims are withdrawn we shall bring a case against them, that we shall also call in the police and lay charges of false witness and attempting to influence the law.”
I beamed. “I’ll go to bed now and pray that we shall do all these things in a few hours.” And with that I retired to bed, to dream strange dreams of a judge who waved a newspaper at me and swore I was an imposter, that I was not Doctor Watson but a poor cook and a bad man, that this paper was proof, and I should hang. I woke, remembering some of my fear, and determined that Miss Mary should be exonerated.
Pausing only to buy several newspapers, we took a cab to the Felloweses’ home, where we were met with eager questions. Holmes held up his hand to request a hearing once we were inside and seated.
“The case progresses. Already we know that Jonathan Turner and Janet Pierce lied for reasons of their own. I have admissions of this from their own lips. Mrs. Addleton once mistook the behavior and attitude of another girl, for which mistake she and her husband were forced to pay out a large sum, which may lead us to consider that she also mistook the supposedly sullen aspect and pert attitude of Miss Mary. Now what I wish to do is produce proof that the stories the newspapers are circulating are also untrue.” He took several pages from his pocket and read from the first.
“This says that your daughter attempted to poison you when she was only five, her reason being that you would not permit her to play with the local children. Is that true?”
The sergeant frowned. “It is not true, yet it sounds as if someone does know something of events. It was while we were in India but before we met you, Doctor,” he added, looking at me. “I had two severe bouts of malaria, not poisoning, but it’s true I did not allow Mary to play with the local children. The people had many diseases and the children played in gutters, which overflowed with unwholesome things. There was also much cruelty, such that I did not wish my child to see. I told her of my reasons and she, being a good child, accepted my order.”
“Who would know of this? Of your order to her and your illness?”
“Any soldier or his family who were at that post, and such civilians as visited us or worked in the area. Or it may have been one of our servants who talked, yet I can think of no one who would even remember after so many years such a trivial incident and hate Mary or me sufficiently to bruit it abroad in such a guise.”
“They also say,” Holmes here read about Mary attacking a playfelllow. “Have you the direction of this family? How close are the facts?”
Sergeant Fellowes was red-faced with what I saw was honest rage. “It is a tissue of lies, sir. The only incident which I can recall was not an attack by Mary on a friend, but her saving her friend from a rabid dog.”
Holmes gestured him to continue.
“It was this way, sir. The other girl, Sarah, was the daughter of a fellow sergeant; she was but newly come to the country and was ahead of Mary as they were walking to the bazaar when a dog appeared. My Mary recognized that the beast was rabid and called to her friend to come back, not to approach the animal, but before the other girl could obey the dog ran at her. Mary seized a stick and as the dog opened its mouth she wedged the stick in its jaws. Then they fled while one of the soldiers nearby slew the animal. Neither girl was harmed, but foam from the dog’s mouth had spattered Sarah and she was kept in her bedroom with a doctor in attendance until they could be sure she had taken no ill.”
I snorted in disgust. “So this is the case against her. That she obeyed her father, he having malaria, and that she saved a friend from a terrible death. Do you know where Sarah’s family might be?”
“I do.” He gave us an address and I noted it down.
We spoke a few pleasantries, said we had hope of bringing this to a successful conclusion, and left to find Colonel Denham and his lady, both of whom were at home in a townhouse and prepared to see us.
Holmes bowed silently, and merely handed the colonel the third newspaper item once we were seated. Both husband and wife perused it with care before Mrs. Denham looked up.
“It is a tissue of lies,” she said flatly. “It suggests that I refused to give a scarf to Mary and in revenge she placed a snake in my bedroom. Neither event occurred. As you may have heard, I did give Mary a scarf for her eighth birthday. It was one I had been given and it never suited me, but it went with her coloring and she loved it. There was a snake found in my bedroom and I was almost bitten but,” she leaned forward, speaking slowly in emphasis, “that was three years later, when we were in another post far from Sergeant Fellowes and his family. Not only was Mary not responsible, she could not have been responsible. I find this article scurrilous.”
She turned to Colonel Denham. “My dear, I am offended at this use of my name. Will you please approach the writer of these falsehoods and say that unless the work is immediately withdrawn I shall take action against him. I can bring clear proof that nothing in this,” she waved the newspaper page, “is true, and I am deeply insulted.”
Holmes rose to his feet. “That would be an excellent idea, Mrs. Denham. Mary is in sufficient trouble that such lies about her may make things worse.”
“I—we—believe her innocent,” Mrs. Denham said. The Colonel nodded agreement.
Holmes nodded in return. “As do we, and we strive to prove it so. Thank you for your assistance, and may I suggest that you make haste to see the writer of this. I will leave my newspaper with you.” He did so, and we left to find Sarah Gildon and her parents.
She too was adamant that the newspaper’s tale was untrue. Mary had saved her at great danger to herself, and Sarah remembered her fondly. She would go at once, with her parents in support, to find the reporter and tell him that his story must be withdrawn.
And so it went. Now there was one last lie to be exposed: that Mary had killed her brother. The broadsheet was not specific. Mary had had two brothers: one older, one younger. Both had died, the elder from pneumonia, the younger by an accident. We must prove her innocent of both deaths before we could force the withdrawal of these lies. It would not be easy.
7
Once we left the Gildon house, Holmes, who had been meditating on several aspects of events, now spoke on what was to him the most obvious avenue of investigation.
“Someone is talking to the press, Watson. Someone who either does not like the family or Miss Mary and is desirous of causing trouble, or the writer of these reports has a vivid imagination and has merely heard certain tales and built on them. Why do you not go and discover if the older brother did indeed die from pneumonia, while I investigate the writer?”
I thought this an excellent idea and said so. We returned home, dined, had a good night’s sleep, and over breakfast Holmes asked me a question that I had not heretofore considered.
“You may recall that Mr. Addleton Senior said the cutlery had been blackened when he found it, and that he believed arsenic caused this. But was he right, Watson? You did not think so. What else could blacken silver?”
I could answer this. “Lemon juice, Holmes, also vinegar, and a number of other items found in any household. Oh, and cooked eggs. They contain sulfur and it is that which blackens silver, as does,” I said ruefully, “our own London fog.”
“Cooked eggs,” Holmes repeated before lapsing into one of his states of deep thought. After several minutes he asked, “Watson, how long would cutlery have to remain in proximity to the eggs?”
I stare
d. “Holmes, I have no idea. You could perform tests, perhaps. Or,” I smiled, “you could ask Mrs. Hudson, as she is likely to know the answer to such a question.” I rose from the table. “In any case, I sent a message to the Felloweses to expect me. I shall see you at dinner tonight.”
Holmes nodded absentmindedly and I saw that he was again sunk in thought. I hoped he would not annoy Mrs. Hudson by demanding that she immerse cutlery in cooked eggs for various lengths of time. She would appreciate neither the waste of good food, not the disruption of her kitchen.
I left the house half an hour later, in haste to reach the Felloweses’ household. Once there I was conducted to the parlor, said I would prefer the kitchen, and ended up sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in one hand.
“You know of certain newspaper articles about your family,” I said. “We know them to be lies, yet it is clear to both Holmes and me that someone is obtaining information about your lives, including earlier events. We have been able to disprove much of what is being said, but one item stands out as the most damaging: the claim that Mary was in some way responsible for the death of her brother. Since they have never particularized which brother, we are investigating the circumstances of both deaths. Now, tell me of the older boy. Mathew, was it not?”
The sergeant sat forward in his chair. “Aye, Mathew. He was three years older than Mary. He died of pneumonia and I blame his employer, ’deed I do.”
This was new information. “Be clear with me, Sergeant. How old was Mathew when he died, and why do you hold his employer to blame?”
He sighed heavily and took up his tale. “My son Mathew was twenty when he died two years ago. He was two years older than Mary. Mathew was thirteen and Mary near eleven when we returned to London, and once he reached fourteen he joined me and worked for four years at the Hemmings. However, he wished to better himself, and my wife and I were in agreement. He went, therefore, to ask for employment in the City, but could find nothing. Mr. Hemming gave him a fine reference and it was suggested that Mathew try further afield, which he did. At last, after almost a year, he found employment with a small firm that needed a clerk. The firm dealt with the purchase of rabbit skins and the resale of them to furriers in the City. It was prosperous, yet not so large that they would not consider taking on a lad who had not been specifically trained as a clerk, since they could get him at a lower wage.”
Here he paused to take the refilled cup his wife handed him, while she refilled mine also. We drank and he resumed.
“My son was a hard worker and a good lad. He was valued for these qualities, and in a way it was they that killed him. The firm had received a shipment of skins, which because of a delay in the train’s arrival, came exceedingly late into store. The firm’s owner, having a previous engagement, asked that Mathew remain and count the skins into stock, leaving money to pay the carter. The main store is not within the City’s center, but farther out where a number of warehouses lie. It is a rough area. Cabs can be found, but it is some considerable walk to where they have a rank, and by the time Mathew had completed counting it was dark and raining heavily.”
I allowed him to continue, but I could see what must have occurred. It was worse than I had thought.
“The carter was asked if he would wait and carry Mathew to the train but he refused, saying that it was wet and the horses were tired. Mathew finished his task, locked the building, and began to walk to where he might find a cab to take him to the railway station. He too was exhausted and wet through, and he had eaten nothing since lunch. In the darkness he missed his footing and fell. We do not know how long he lay there, but in falling he had struck his head and was unconscious, it is thought, for perhaps half an hour. He regained his senses finally, managed to rise and walk again, found a cab which would take him to catch the next train, and so he arrived home.”
Mrs. Fellowes sobbed once and the sergeant patted her shoulder.
“Aye, as soon as ever he walked in our door I could see he was in a bad way. My missus went at once for the doctor while I got the lad undressed and into his bed. He told me what had happened, and I sent a message to his employer, too, saying I doubted Mathew would be able to work in the morning, and enclosing the receipts and tally of the skins. T’ doctor came and examined Mathew and said as how it were already pneumonia and that his condition was grave.” Here he could not continue.
I could see it all now. A young man, exhausted, ill-fed, wet through, and with a blow to the head, who lay in the rain, becoming colder and colder. His only desire once he regained his feet would be to return home, and the continuing journey—in cold, wet clothing—weakening him further still. By the time he reached the haven for which he strove, he would be in a poor condition indeed, and I had known more than one person in good health to die in such a situation.
“I fear I need to ask a few questions,” I told the sergeant and his wife. “I must have a clear picture of events. Now, how long was it after Mathew reached your home that the doctor arrived?” Sergeant Fellowes consulted his wife and they agreed it had not been more than a half hour, the doctor living only two streets away. “And when did Mathew die?” Again they consulted.
“It would have been an hour or two over three days, sir. He returned to us late that night. My wife was looking at the clock wondering what kept him, and it was exactly eleven-thirty. That old clock is fifteen minutes fast mostly, so it would have been a quarter past eleven.”
Mrs. Fellowes broke in. “That’s so, an’ that were a Monday night. I nursed my boy and the doctor came twice a day but there was nothing he could do. Mathew fell into a deathly sleep after midday Thursday and by evening I knew, I knew he wasn’t going to live. Still I did all I could, and I sent a lad to called Mary home.”
“She had not been there until the time when you called her?”
“No, doctor came and said Mathew were sinking, and I should prepare for it. I didn’t need telling, and I sat by my son’s bed, waiting. I hoped Mary would come in time an’ she did, for half hour after she reached us my boy died. Least he died with us around him. I were holding his hand and my husband his other hand. Mary, she sat by me, talking to her brother and saying his name over and over. Last thing, he opened his eyes and he saw us, I know he did. He smiled at us and then he were gone.” She broke down then and I asked nothing more until she regained some composure.
“Was the doctor present throughout this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Mary sat at your side, the side furthest from Mathew. Where was the doctor?”
“At foot of the bed. Now and again he moved up to take Mathew’s pulse and he’d look sad. He’s a good doctor, sir. He knew my father and it pleased us to have him as doctor when we returned.”
“Could you give me his direction?”
She did so and I took my leave, bidding them have hope for all was not lost, and Holmes strove day and night to find proof of Miss Mary’s innocence. I walked to the doctor’s home and knocked on the door. He was there, and as one medical man to another I engaged him in a professional discussion before showing him a copy of the newspaper that claimed Mary had killed her brother.
He rose to his feet in wrath. “Scurrilous lies, sir! The girl only reached the Felloweses’ home thirty minutes before her brother breathed his last. At that point there was no hope for him. Even had she put arsenic in a glass and poured in into him he would have died no faster, and I stand here to deny any such event occurred. I never left the room between her arrival and the lad’s death. His parents held his hands, poor young man. She sat at his bedside, but on the other side of her mother away from the boy. She spoke to him, and at the last he regained his senses for a moment, but still she did not touch him until some minutes had passed. I tell you, there was no way she could have been responsible for the boy’s death, and so I would say in any court in the land. How can such lies be told?”
“Easily,” I said. “They pay.”
“Yes,” he agreed grimly. “But if an action w
ere to be brought, they might pay the Felloweses.”
“Tell me, Doctor, if it were necessary, would you be ready to testify in court that she could not have killed her brother and that she could not and did not worsen his condition in any way?”
He stood straight. “I would, sir. Her grandfather was my good friend and I hold the family in high esteem. Bad enough that they have lost two sons, now their daughter lies in gaol, in peril of her life.”
Something in the way he spoke led me to think. “You mention the loss of both sons. Do you know anything of the death of the younger one?”
He stared. “Of course. The boy died here after the family was sent home from the sergeant’s last posting.” I indicated great interest and he sat down again. “Yes, it was a sad day, a sad, sad day. A nice lad, young Jackson. Bright, you know. I think he would have made something of himself once he was of an age to work. It was the fault of no one; he’d been given marbles for his birthday, and while playing with a friend he traded half of them for a ball the other boy owned. They were tossing that about on the pavement when Jackson missed his catch and ran after it.”
He paused to offer me a glass of beer, which I accepted.
“Yes. Jackson ran right under the wheels of a brewer’s wagon, and although I was sent for at once, there was nothing I could have done, even had I been right there when it happened. His chest was crushed, and he died where he fell. That was six years ago now, and Jackson would have been twelve at the end of this year. Ah, the Felloweses have seen trouble, and it’s wrong that more should be brought to their door. Is there nothing that can be done?”
“A question, Doctor.”
He laughed harshly. “You would ask where Mary was. I can tell you. She was at work and could not be at her home until evening.”
“What do you know of her sleepwalking?”
The doctor appeared surprised. “I know that she does it. There were episodes after the death of Jackson—she was home for three days, her employers having given her that time to be a comfort to her family—and again when Mathew died.”
Sherlock Holmes Page 8