“Yes, yes, I heard of the boy’s death and I was sorry for it. We were friends; not perhaps as close as others were to him, but I liked James. Why, I saw him only a day or two before he died, for we dined together at the club on the previous Thursday night. He asked me about my father most particularly.”
That seemed to me to be odd. Why should Barker ask about a club-member’s father? I said so.
Daverton chuckled. “I have no idea, Doctor. But I do recall the conversation, since it was the last I had with him. You may have heard that we have property in Spain. My father was there at the time, but he was to return early upon the coming Monday. James said that he was eager to speak to him on some matter of urgency regarding the club. I asked why he did not approach his godfather and he said that he wanted no appearance of impropriety, no suggestion of nepotism.”
I suddenly understood. “You mean that your father was on the club committee?”
“Of course. That was why he planned to return to London on Monday, for there was a committee meeting planned for that evening.”
“How is it you remember that?” I asked, wanting to be sure.
“Why, news of James’s death came to me the previous night, and I met my father before his committee meeting. I told him the news there and then, so that if Nanton attended nothing should be said that would distress him.”
I took a deep breath. Here was some confirmation that Wimbledon had been in danger of being unmasked. What had he said to his inamorata? That those who exposed him to ridicule or difficulties paid a price. Well, the boy who knew too much had paid. I wondered if anyone else had a heavy payment demanded of them. I took that tidbit back to Holmes that evening and he considered it.
“Yes, that brings some thoughts to mind. The lad was being careful; he wished to speak to a committee member, and he was desirous of there being no insinuation that he had involved anyone who might be supposed to give him a hearing biased in his favor. That does not imply it was he who was in trouble, rather that he planned to bring—charges may not be too harsh a word—against another club member. And he would not have done so before he told the person in question of his intentions.”
“Wimbledon!” I said triumphantly.
Holmes looked thoughtful. “We cannot say that.”
“No, but whom else? I assure you, I questioned Daverton. Barker was on good terms with everyone and generally liked. While not, shall we say, a bosom friend, Daverton was perhaps his best friend there, aside from Wimbledon.”
My companion looked up sharply. “He mentioned Wimbledon?”
“Why, yes. He said that the man was out of London at the time and was deeply grieved to hear of Barker’s death upon his return.”
“Was he, indeed?”
I was proud that I could tell him the remainder of my information. “Daverton said that Wimbledon went out of his way to tell him how distressed he was. He said that he had planned to ask Barker to present him to the club committee with a proposal, but that with his friend dead he had not the heart to continue. He hoped Barker had not already spoken to anyone. Daverton told him that Barker had intended to talk to Daverton’s father upon his return, but that he had not yet done so. He tried to discover what the proposal might have been, but could get nothing out of Wimbledon. However, a year later Wimbledon gave the club a generous donation to expand their library, and he assumed that this was what his proposal would have been.”
“Clever,” my friend said. “If Barker had dropped any hints he knew everyone would make that assumption.”
My look was sour. “Do we have sufficient to take to the authorities, Holmes? Is any of that sufficient?”
He nodded. “I think so. We can show that the position of the body was not consistent with suicide or accident and that the boy was not so distressed as to be likely to kill himself under circumstances where a good friend’s sister might come upon the body. In fact, I have made inquiries there already, Watson. I find that the coroner of the time was prone to take as little trouble as possible with any inquest, the more so if he believed the verdict would bring pain upon a family. I believe that in this case he was so eager to have the jury give out that James Barker had died by misadventure that the possibility of murder never occurred to him. I have seen a record of the inquest; few questions were asked, and the man appears to have seized upon Barker’s comment ‘that he had some unpleasant task ahead’ to persuade the jury into a verdict of misadventure, thinking it a kindness.”
“Do you think it likely that he will now alter that?”
“The man who presided over that inquest died last year,” Holmes informed me. “I am told that his successor is a livelier man altogether; he is young, progressive, and energetic. I plan to approach him and see if he will not overturn the original verdict and hold another inquest to consider all we have recently found.”
I can relate that this was so. The young coroner was fascinated by our story and eager to reconsider the verdict.
“I knew James. I was only eight when he died, but I read the papers again when I knew you wished to call upon me and I am in agreement. There was nothing to indicate a melancholy frame of mind, and in my opinion he would have been unlikely in any case to slay himself, knowing there to be a strong likelihood that Miss Emma, as she was, would find his body. I never heard him spoken of as less than a gentleman, and indeed as a gentle man. No, I am persuaded that murder is not unlikely, and I am prepared to revisit the verdict.”
That was done a week later. Holmes did not wish Wimbledon to be named and he was not; however the original verdict was struck out and the verdict of ‘murder by person or persons undetermined’ was entered into records and given to the local paper. The ongoing grief of Miss Dimberly and the Finlay and MacKenzie families was much eased thereby.
Yet, as I said to my friend over breakfast, we continued to clear up many matters as we went, but our ultimate goals were still not in sight.
Holmes eyed me with amusement. “What do you see as our goals now, Watson?”
“Twofold,” I stated. “That we uncover Wimbledon’s murderer, and that we secure his estate for Miss Irene while keeping from her the knowledge of how it was achieved, so that she shall be willing to accept it.”
“Well done. Those are indeed our goals. Let us consider the second briefly. I have had further inquiries made as to the lady. My inquirers tell me that they can discover nothing to her discredit. That she married a man bigamously is true, but there has been nothing at all to suggest that she knew this, or that she was not genuinely distressed by the news. A friend of hers from that time told my informant that the man attempted a return to her…”
“What?” I cried. “What of his other wife?”
“Soon after his return to his lawful wife, some kind friend told her of his bigamous marriage and she too rejected him. Being from a family with some money, she was able to divorce him without the need for his provision of her, and he could not prevent it. She had two children by him. They are now adults and I am informed that they have had nothing to do with him from that time on, have not seen him, and know nothing of his whereabouts.”
“What of the man himself?”
Holmes’s look was almost a sneer. “Typical of that kind, Watson. He obtained two divorces—yes, he managed a divorce from Irene Jarvis also—without the authorities catching up with him, and went to France where he married a widow, the owner of a vineyard. She, being French and shrewd, supported him in comfort without ever permitting him to lay hands on her property. He died eight years ago in what was said to be an accident.”
“Said to be?” I demanded. “Not another murder?”
“The authorities are satisfied it was an accident. Murder it may have been, and I consider it not unlikely, but the only witness was the widow, and the evidence, what little there is, supports her.”
I found myself curious. “How did he die?”
“He fell into a vat of fermenting wine late one night while drunk. There were no signs of a blo
w, and the doctor said that the alcohol level in the victim’s blood was extreme. The widow said that her husband had gone to check on the vat’s progress, and she fell asleep and failed to realize he had not returned,” Holmes said blandly.
I thought about that from the doctor’s point of view. “Yes,” I agreed. “It may well have been an accident in that case. How else?”
Holmes snorted. “Let me put a hypothetical case to you, Watson. There is a middle-aged widow married some years to a second husband, a man who is known to like women and be deceitful concerning, and to, them. Perhaps she discovers he is up to his old tricks and decides to be rid of him without scandal. She encourages him to drink heavily within view of friends and family, and once it is established that he does so, she chooses a night when no one is about and sees that he does so again. Once he is almost unconscious she persuades him to walk with her to the vats, she gives him a final drink of something still more potent, and once he has become unconscious she uses a hoist to lift him to the edge of the vat and allows him to slide in.”
“And if he were that drunk and already unconscious, he would drown,” I agreed. “There would be no signs of a struggle or of any violence but,” I made up my mind, “I do not believe it. You imply that she made preparations for some time to do that, but as you say, there is no proof and the authorities agree. Frankly, Holmes, I know that we have uncovered several murders in this case already, but I think you may now be seeing one that never existed.” I spread a piece of toast with marmalade and ate it with an air of decision. “Shall we now consider Wimbledon’s murder?”
“Certainly,” my friend replied. “Let us look at Mrs. Goodwinne. She has motive, probably the opportunity, and perhaps the will—if what is writ in the diary is true.”
I scowled angrily as that comment struck me. “Do you really think that all those passages about their love could have been lies? I admit I had begun to wonder about some of what he wrote.”
Holmes eyed me. “Watson, we know some of the entries to have been untrue. It is possible that his claims of their affair could also be lies. I merely suggest that you walk warily. As for further interviews, there are her father, her husband, a brother, and innumerable other male relatives who may be consulted.”
I drew myself up at his jocular tone. “Do you wish me to investigate?”
“If you so desire, Watson. How will you go about it?”
I thought about that and saw a number of difficulties. “I cannot approach her directly,” I mused. “Purdon has forbidden Harrison to do so, and is unlikely to alter that stricture for me. If I question her family, they will talk about that to others, and in any case, what am I to ask? If the lady had a passionate affair with a man immediately upon her marriage? Truth or not, they are not likely to take such a suggestion at all well, even if I show them a copy of Wimbledon’s diary and allow them to read the entries concerning her. They would most certainly tell what they had read to her husband, and while I cannot condone her behavior, I do not wish to be the cause of such dissention as must inevitably ensue.”
Holmes nodded. “Telling a fond husband that his wife has been deceiving him for years and thrusting under his nose written and, ah, rather graphic proof, could produce such a result,” he said judiciously. “It would help if instead you questioned several female friends of hers from that time. Do not allow them to guess your purpose, simply ask them of her attitude towards Wimbledon and perhaps imply that he may have committed suicide for unrequited love of her.” He smiled cynically. “Women will believe anything if love is mentioned.”
I found one of the ladies who had been good friends with Alice Leighton before her marriage, and she was entirely willing to talk to me. “We have rather lost touch these days, but at the time she was one of my best friends, and I can tell you of that man.” Here she shuddered. “I was at the party when he accosted her. I had just opened the door to go in search of her when I heard their voices.”
“Did you hear what was said?”
“I heard all that was said from the moment I opened the door. Nasty little man. He said he knew that her father had forced her to accept Goodwinne, that he, Wimbledon, had always loved her and would save her. That she had only to marry him and he would see that she lived in luxury and Goodwinne should never come near her again. She was polite, Dr. Watson. Several of her closest friends knew that Wimbledon had pursued her and that her father had shown him the door. I think she feared that Wimbledon had been deeply hurt by this, and although she did not see him as a more than an acquaintance, she was a kind girl and did not wish to wound him further.”
“Did she ever tell you why her father acted so?”
“She said that her father had made inquiries and that no one knew the man’s family. Although he implied he was related to the Wimbledon family, her father had been able to establish no proven connection, nor was the man prepared to produce any. Even the source of his money appeared obscure.” She shrugged. “Goodwinne is of an old and a good family, and he came into a title and a large estate, as well as considerable money, when his uncle died within the year.
“She was, besides that, in love with Goodwinne, and he with her. I do not think she ever considered Wimbledon as an eligible match. She liked him well enough as the merest acquaintance, and as someone with whom she danced now and again, but I do not think she ever thought of him in a romantic way. He was not that sort.”
“How so?”
The lady frowned. “I cannot truly say, but there was always such an air of business about him. Even when he complimented her, he sounded like a man pleased with his balance in the bank. He once gave her flowers, and I swear it was as if he had chosen a posy that would cost the least for the most result. He had that air about him when he presented it, as if he watched to see if the outlay had been worth it.”
I laughed. “I can see him as you describe. So you think that he was not in love with her, either?”
She sat in silence, thinking. At last she gave her opinion. “I think, Dr. Watson, that he assuredly wanted her, and he coveted her for his own. But it was almost as if he desired a precious possession for his house, one that by his ownership would give him a greater consequence. A possession that would produce envy in others and by that, raise him in his own estimation as well.”
I noticed the perception in her eyes and felt that she could be right. I decided to risk my next questions. “Then you would say Mrs.Goodwinne did not really like him? That if you heard a rumor she had gone to him after her marriage you would think it unlikely?”
“I most definitely would,” the lady was emphatic. “Alice was kind, as I have said. But I knew she was becoming irked by his pursuit, and wished that he would accept her father’s dismissal of his suit.” Her smile was smug. “I heard everything that night, as I said. He was importunate, he slandered Goodwinne, he suggested that Alice was too young and foolish to know her own mind, and he ended by saying that as an older and wiser man he knew best, and she should get her wrap and come with him immediately. He said she could remain the night in his house while he made the arrangements, and that they would be wed in the morning.”
I blinked. The man had been an idiot. Even I would have known better. “To stay the night alone with him? And he would make the arrangements?” I repeated. “I am told that she was under age at the time. How did he plan to marry her the next day?”
My hostess smiled cheerfully. “That may have occurred to Alice. Either way, none of what he said pleased her. She had never wished nor intended to marry him, and while she rarely lost her temper, Alice could do so now and again. When she did, well.” Her smile widened. “We all heard what came after. Alice said that her father had merely stated what she wished him to say. She did not want to marry Wimbledon, for she loved and intended to marry Goodwinne. She said that if Wimbledon ever came near her again she would have someone teach him a lesson. If he entered any private home where she was in future, she would have him thrown out. He was never to address her again, eithe
r in private or in public, and if he did, he would regret it.”
She dragged the toe of her shoe across the carpet, looking down at the mark. “I tell you, Doctor. If anyone had spoken to me in such a way and in such tones, I would have been utterly humiliated. I cannot describe to you how she sounded; there was a vast anger overlaid with a contempt so great it was as if she spoke to a mange-ridden cur scrabbling in the gutter.”
She looked up and her gaze met mine. “I saw him, too. I had come to the dance with my cousin and his sister. My cousin followed me from the room and was standing behind me, and he, too, heard all that was said, as I think did others behind us. When Wimbledon came around the corner, he found us standing there. His face was without expression, but his eyes were alive with rage and wounded pride. My cousin later said to others that he would not wish to be anyone who had caused such a look. I, too, thought it wholly dangerous.”
I asked a few more innocuous questions and allowed her to think I was interested in another aspect of events. Finally I rose. At the door she halted me briefly, pressing a card into my hand. “I lost touch with Alice about three years after my marriage, but you could talk to Maude Jemison.” Here she gave an address. “She remained good friends with Alice since they lived only two houses from each other until recently. Maude now lives further down the street, but they are yet close friends and she could perhaps tell you more.”
We parted with goodwill on both sides, and I decided at once to seek out the woman named and ask more about Alice Goodwinne. If they had lived so close and been good friends immediately after Alice’s marriage, when the diary said that Wimbledon and Alice were intimate, then surely this Maude would have had some inkling of the affair. The question was, would she tell me anything, or would she still regard herself bound in silence by friendship. I hailed a cab.
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