The door opened and Michael walked in and sat on the nearest chair without speaking. He fixed his eyes upon Holmes, while the others stared at him.
“Michael Bishop,” Holmes announced, “has made a statement to the police. He should have been called when Mary asked, but he was not told of her request, and returned at some inconvenience to testify.”
Holmes’s gaze went to Mrs. Addleton. “You swore that Mary was alone in the kitchen. Janet Pierce has admitted she entered the kitchen twice—in your presence. You swore that Mary never departed the kitchen, yet we have proof she left at least once to check if the coal had been delivered. We have both the statement by the carter, and a dated delivery note.” His voice dropped so all leaned forward to hear him.
“And then, of course, there is the man you meet at a deserted cottage. Was it he who poisoned your husband and father-in-law? Was it he you planned to marry so that he would share your fortune? Was it he—within the walls of this house as he was, having access to poison as he had—who tried to murder your husband and father-in-law? Or was it he who tired of you and thought poison a fine way to be rid of you while retaining the gifts you have given him?”
His voice had risen to a harsh grating tone that threatened and pierced defenses, and as he spoke he had slowly revolved until he addressed the final question to another.
Jonathan Turner shot from his chair, face white with terror. “No, no! I did nothing! Yes, I lied about Mary, because she would have been angry since she wanted to marry me. I didn’t. I didn’t!”
Holmes’s voice seemed to slide between his cries. “Didn’t?”
“I didn’t murder anyone!”
“And marriage?”
“What? To her?”
Mrs. Addleton, who had half risen from her seat, sank back, her face ghastly with a mixture of rage and pain at the scorn in his voice.
“She’s old! She were good for a tumble, knows what’s what, that were all.”
“So you did not know she was responsible?”
The lad’s voice was sullen. “No, I didn’t, and you can’t say as how I did.”
Mrs. Addleton stood up slowly, her eyes fixed on him. “Liar,” she said softly, with an intensity that cut like a knife. “You knew, for I told you, and you thought it a good plan, you said. We would sell the business and go abroad where none knew us. We would live in luxury and I should be your cherished lady. Would I have been next to die once you had all of my money, since I am old and not worth marriage?”
Jonathan Turner sprang to confront her, his face livid. “Lying bitch. Whore! You were eager enough to seduce me; should I now be hanged because you took for truth what any man may say when he is hot?”
She drooped, her passion fading. “Why not?” was all she said, as Lestrade gestured the officers to take them both into custody.
She was removed amidst a deathly silence. Mrs. Danforth spoke first. “I am sorry.” She stood. “There may be little enough that I can do, but what I can do I must; she is my daughter. Mr. Addleton, I will have my possessions removed within the week. I can have no claim upon you after this, nor will I make any.” She followed the prisoners, her head up, and her back straight.
I admired her and hoped that all would be—if not exactly well—then still not horrible for her.
Both Addletons were left staring at each other. “It was she?”
“So she admitted.”
“But if not arsenic….” They turned to Holmes.
“You go often to London where your printers reside. Printers have, by way of their trade, a great assortment of inks. Many of which contain a certain ingredient called Sugar of Lead, used along with linseed. The week before, Mrs. Addleton went to the printers for you, as was not uncommon. Whilst there, she stole a small container of this ingredient. No one would notice it gone, and even if they had, they would think it to have been used in the normal way. On the morning that Mary made yeast dumplings, she waited until the girl was briefly absent. She poked a finger into each section of the portioned dough and placed some of the poison within that, afterwards smoothing over the hole. The poison tastes slightly sweet and would not be noticed because of it.
“She marked the dumpling she would take, so she would be able to escape most of the effects. She was foolish in the extreme. The dumplings became turned about in the cooking, and a similar mark appeared on another. She ate less than it appeared, and she exaggerated her symptoms.”
“But why? For love of that young scoundrel?”
“I think as well for freedom to do as she wished: to travel, to live in luxury, and to have her own money.”
“She would not have had such luxury even had she sold everything,” old Mr. Addleton snorted.
Holmes looked wry. “Would she not? She gossiped, but she also listened and pried. I suspect that she read private papers and letters. It’s my opinion that she had come to know how you, sir,” he faced old Mr. Addleton, “were placed in a certain family, and that you had far more wealth than was apparent. If you died, who should inherit? And if your heir then died, who would receive all that he had?” The old man’s eyes widened as he understood. “Exactly. She played a clever game.”
“I saw no signs of my papers being—”
“She was not—”
Father and son halted and stood silent, unable to think for their bewilderment.
I intervened, seeing that they were at an impasse and knew neither what to say, nor what to do. “I would suggest that if you like and trust Mrs. Danforth, you allow her to remain a while yet. Dismiss Janet Pierce, hire new maids, have Michael look about for a suitable new apprentice to join you, and take up your lives again. To do less is to allow a wicked woman to triumph.” I spoke decisively and received an approving glance from my friend. My advice seemed to spur the Addleton men out of their apathy.
And so it was. Prosecutor Hestin took this case—a sign that he retained the confidence of his superiors—although I have heard that since Miss Mary’s case, he is more careful to sift testimony and call witnesses who have been asked for.
In a short space of time Mrs. Addleton and her lover walked to the gallows. She had sworn at their trial that he had known all she planned and that he lied to aid that. True or not—and I suspected at the time it was untrue—her evidence had been accepted.
I wondered on that point, however. “Holmes, he did eat some of that dumpling and he was ill. Would he have done so if he’d known all her plan?”
My friend considered. “If he did know, I think he accepted the risk, Watson. He did as she, eating less than it appeared, and then exaggerating his symptoms. I knew he was withholding something when I spoke to him. I was unable to decide if it were more personal information, or something concerning the case.” He frowned. “I am now of the opinion that he did know she intended to be rid of her husband and his father and have their property to herself. Which would have suited Master Turner well. They planned to travel the continent. How if they were wed there, and some short time later she died in a way that was taken as an accident? He could return to England a wealthy man, none knowing what he had done.”
I was horrified. “You think it so?”
“I think it likely. I told you that the boy had no great intelligence, but I also said I believed him to be cunning. As for Mrs. Addleton, there is an old saying: that a hunter should always beware he does not become the hunted.”
“Well,” I commented. “Whatever the boy knew or did not, they are as bad as each other and they’ll pay the price.” Which they did within the month.
Lestrade, who had been present, told us that at the last the woman had appeared unmoved. She had thrown the dice and lost, and with no coin left to bet, she walked calmly to the place appointed for her death, her face showing neither fear nor hope. But Jonathan Turner had to be carried and supported on his feet for the hangman to place the noose about his neck. The boy had raved, blaming the woman, cursing her to hell, and begging her, between his screams of terror, to say he had known nothing. She m
erely smiled at him. At the last she died in silence, and he followed her minutes later.
Loughton Hall Publishers flourishes. “Miss Gibson” writes a new horrid novel each year, and she and her great-aunt live most comfortably on the proceeds—with a growing bank balance—while her brother acts for her and keeps her secret still. In time, he may come to own the firm, since the younger Mr. Addleton has no son but has come to rely upon Michael as though he were his own. Mrs. Danforth was prevailed upon to remain, and runs the household well, with two sisters, worthy and respectable girls, hired as maids. They have a new apprentice, a fine lad of fourteen—who was recommended to them by a certain headmaster in Harlow. Yes, Mr. Cranbourne regained his position, which pleased many in the town.
And the heroine of my story? She was released from her imprisonment two days after the arrest of the true criminals. She went to stay quietly with the man who would become her father-in-law, and a month after that she married her Jack, who had believed in her all along. The marriage was a small and private ceremony attended only by their families and by certain good friends. Reporter besieged both Loughton Hall and the Felloweses’ home for some days, once word of the acquittal and then the marriage had got out. From the former residence they gained nothing but a brief and formal statement read by a lawyer, and from the latter they gained no reply for all their importunate clamor, and no sign of the wrongly accused girl whom they had so traduced.
Janet Pierce, I may say, flourished, as the Bible advises is the common state of the green bay tree. She was gaoled for some years for her false evidence and her disposal of the arsenic. On her release, she inherited money from a distant aunt who had known nothing of the woman’s sins. Janet took the goodly sum that was left to her, went to Scotland, changed her name and appearance, purchased a business with attached cottage, and married well sometime after that. Her husband, who was a respectable man of the parish, never knew her previous history.
I heard next from Sergeant Fellowes a year later, when he called at our address and I wrung his outstretched hand immediately after opening the door to him. “My dear fellow, it is good to see you! Is all well?”
“Aye, more than well. Mary had a fine son two days gone, and has named him John Holmes Hemming. You do not think Mr. Holmes will mind that his name is not first?”
Knowing my friend, I could answer honestly. “No, he will not mind. He does not desire publicity, even of such sort.” We both smiled. “And your employer, is he pleased with his grandson?”
The sergeant grinned. “Like a dog with two tails, he is. He goes about with a smile all day, and he says as we must all work hard so his grandson will have a larger and more prosperous business to inherit.”
And that is the story. I referred to it earlier as a tragedy, and so it was in many ways. The Addletons would never forget that one they had trusted had so betrayed them. Two paid the price of that betrayal, and Mrs. Danforth grieved for the daughter she had loved, despite her sins. But that is the nature of tragedy: some suffer, some do well, and some pay—yet it is not always justice that triumphs. Such is the nature of things.
THE DREADFUL DIARY
1
It was a fine summer’s day, unless you counted the all-too-airless feeling in the streets and the heat, which was so great as to give the impression that the air rippled. Thankfully I had no need to be out today. I was finishing a leisurely breakfast when I heard a brisk rapping at our front door. I opened the window and leaned out. Below me I could see the bowler hat of a visitor.
“Are you looking for me?”
The hat tilted back until I could see the freckled face and blue eyes of Detective Harrison, the latest of Lestrade’s protégés.
“For you, Doctor, and for Mr. Holmes, if he’s available.”
“He’s out. Hold on a moment and I’ll let you in.”
I hurried to the front door, admitted him, conducted him to our rooms, and made him comfortable. His drink was more soda than whisky, in deference to his position.
“Now, how may I help you?”
Harrison frowned. “It’s a bit difficult to know where to start, Doctor. But if you have time to listen, I’ll tell you about it all.”
“I have the time,” I assured him. I did, for Holmes would be gone most of the morning, Mrs. Hudson was shopping and wouldn’t be back for several hours, and I had been merely passing my time with a crossword.
Harrison nodded. “Well, you asked for it.”
I smiled, and he accepted that I meant what I said and was prepared to listen even if the tale should be long.
“It’s murder, Dr. Watson. Black murder, and of a man apparently liked by all who knew him. However, I found it not to be the case, so now I have a number of suspects, all with possible motives. But the motives are slight and the suspects seem to be relatively honest. I hoped talking it over might aid me to some conclusion.”
“Start from the beginning,” I said, and waited.
“The beginning? Ah, well that would be maybe twenty years back, when a young man arrived in London. He said then that he was twenty-five, that his name was Gerald Barnes Wimbledon, and he came with a few pounds in the pocket of a quality suit, as well as a smart brain in his head. We’ve been unable to trace him before that, so we have no idea of his family or original home or even if that was his true name. I’ve heard a lot of descriptions of Wimbledon. Man-about-town, they said. A kindly, considerate, generous gentleman, others agreed. They say he was impeccably honorable and quite fastidious about all of the social conventions. His word was his bond, and he never took a woman who wasn’t willing—although there were quite a few of those.
“He first rented, then purchased a small house in Mayfair about three years after his arrival. Odd set-up there. No live-in servants, just a butler and housekeeper, a middle-aged, married couple name of Merrin, who came in each day. No chauffeur, for he drove himself always. We gather he had lady friends besides the official ones. Those others he kept quiet about.” Harrison grinned.
“He had a system for that. The housekeeper says that if one of them was staying over, she’d find a note in the kitchen when she arrived. She’d bring up two breakfasts at whatever time was on the note and leave them by the bedroom door. She and her husband were instructed to shut themselves in the kitchen as soon as the bedroom bell rang again and once she’d collected the empty tray. The lady, whoever she was, left by the side door, got into the back of Wimbledon’s automobile—the blinds were drawn on the car windows—and was driven away. They never had any clue who these women were, and since it’d been made clear that it was both their jobs if they talked or tried to see the women—they didn’t.”
“Odd, as you say,” I agreed. “It does, however, fit in with his friends’ description of him as an honorable man. If they were married women, he made sure they could not be identified and their lives ruined. What about his income?”
“He was a gambler initially, but one who people liked and trusted. Whist was his game at first, although he added poker within a year. Don’t get me wrong, Doctor; there was never any indication that he was dishonest. But he played well, seeming not to mind whether he won or lost, so long as it was a good game.”
I discounted that. Gamblers often use such a façade. It doesn’t mean that they don’t care, only that they wish it to appear that they don’t. “What would you say were his results, on average?”
Harrison pursed his lips. “From what his acquaintances tell me, he generally won, but not a great deal at any one sitting, and now and again he lost a little.”
Holmes had once explained that strategy to me.
“Yes,” I said. “In other words, when he lost it was pennies, and when he won it was pounds. If you average out the amounts, you’d find that without any noticing, he may have won as much as a hundred pounds in a week. He just made more of a play if he lost a little, and said nothing to draw their attention when he won.”
“That’s it, Doctor. No one could give me any figures, but I’d a
gree. Anyway, he never lost his temper, paid up on the spot if he lost, was always pleasant with a ready fund of jokes and quips, stood his round, and people enjoyed being about him. He started investing in property about two years after he came to London, and within ten years he had twenty thousand pounds in the bank, the property in Mayfair where he lived, a block of shops in Soho, an apartment building in Kensington, five racehorses in training, and three new automobiles garaged at his Mayfair home.”
I whistled involuntarily. “Not bad for a man who didn’t care if he won or lost.”
“Not bad for anyone,” Harrison agreed dryly. “Wimbledon continued to live as he pleased. He had lady friends, but none lasted more than a few months. I’ve talked to them, and you’ll find this interesting: they all had some education and could speak well. I persuaded a few into reminiscing, and I’d say that while they didn’t realize it, he was using them to encourage acquaintances to talk.”
I raised my eyebrows questioningly.
“You know, get a man comfortable in a big soft chair, get a few strong drinks into him, have a lovely woman who looks and sounds like one of his own kind bringing him those drinks and hanging on his words, and under the circumstances a man can be considerably indiscreet. There’s been no suggestion that the women did more than encourage talk. In his early days, when he was investing and buying and selling property, he knew more than he should on a number of occasions. Tips from a horse’s mouth, so to speak. He’d nip in using lawyers and buy something up, then sit on it just long enough that those wanting to buy would pay him five or six percent on his purchase price. Never so much that they were angry and started looking to see who was indiscreet. But enough cash and a fast turnover so that any deal he made was profitable.”
“Did he ever have trouble?”
“Once, about three years after he arrived in London. About a year after he got here he’d succeeded in wangling his way into a good club. One of the men around at the time says that Wimbledon was so obviously a gentleman and had money, and he’d been able to find someone to propose him. I asked him to check, and it turns out that the young man who put Wimbledon up for the club died less than a month later. Suicide, they say. Lost all his money at cards and shot himself.” His gaze met mine. No policeman likes that sort of timeline.
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