Sherlock Holmes

by Lyn McConchie

  “Sensible man,” Holmes said, clapping the inspector on the shoulder. “If you wish, I’ll inform Wimbledon’s lawyer where he may find the lady and go with him to break the good news.”

  With which idea the inspector was entirely in charity.

  So it was that two days later Mr. Sarmon, Wimbledon’s lawyer, my friend, and I approached the inn where Irene Jarvis worked. The owner would have protested our taking the woman from her work, but Holmes slipped him a coin and he stepped back. We took Wimbledon’s heir to a private sitting room and there, once she was sitting, a glass of brandy on the table before her, Sarmon broke the news: first that she was an heiress, and secondly that the money had been left by her brother, recently deceased.

  She looked at him. “Ben? Ben’s dead?”

  Holmes took over. “Yes, Miss Jarvis, your brother died a short while ago.” He paused while she assimilated that. “I am sorry to say that it was suicide, although you should not blame him for it,” Homes continued. “Ben knew he was dying and his only thought when he received that news was to make a current will, leaving his estate to you.”

  I patted her arm when she wept, pressed her to drink the brandy, and we waited until she was calmer. The lawyer produced a sheet of paper.

  “This is a list of the bequests. There is just over three hundred thousand pounds in various bank accounts, and then there is his house, a fine building in Mayfair. Should you wish to live there servants can be easily and quickly engaged. Or should you wish to sell it I can do so, according to your instructions.”

  Irene Jarvis stared, and at last she spoke. “Sell it,” she said decisively before looking down at the list of her new assets, her face flushed. “And this, all of this, take a tithe of it and set that aside. It shall go for scholarships at my old school, in my brother’s name. Let those who spoke against him see that he wasn’t the good-for-nothing they thought him.” She laughed suddenly. “And the school was fast enough to send me packing for no fault of my own, let them have my name in their ears for decades to come. They’ll have to be polite any time I go there, and allow me on the platform to present the scholarships each year.”

  I smiled. “A fair revenge. What about a home if you’re selling your brother’s house?”

  She turned to the lawyer. “Will you see if you can buy…” Here she named the address at which she had lived as a girl. “I will pay whatever they ask. That was my old home and those who have remained my friends live in those streets.” Her face was transfigured with happiness. “I shall go home again. I won’t have to work any longer. I always knew Ben would come back to me one day. He could not, but he has given me freedom.” And she wept again.

  That was the end of the task for Holmes and me. A case of a lying and dreadful diary, and a poisonous man who did much good in the end. Irene Jarvis set up sufficient scholarships that the board and teachers of her previous school fawn on her. She purchased her old home and Mrs. Trelan is a regular visitor, as are many of Miss Irene’s earlier friends. She lives quietly, devoting much of her time, and a generous portion of her income, to charitable works.

  The house in Mayfair was unlucky, for its next occupant was stabbed by his mistress, and when his son inherited it he gambled away all his inheritance and sold it to a man who was aboard the Titanic. His will left his estate to charity, and the house was used for a church orphanage and school—to the annoyance of the neighbors—until it burned down one afternoon.

  Miss Dimberly called on us the week after Holmes’s denouement. I ushered her into our rooms and sat her down, offering tea.

  “Thank you, Doctor, that would be pleasant. I regret Mr. Holmes is away but I shall tell you my discovery.” Here she paused to drink. “You may recall that Mr. Holmes suggested I discover who would inherit the trust after my death?” I heard Holmes returning and she waited to continue until he was sat comfortably, head a little to one side as he watched her.

  Miss Dimberly smiled at us. “It is a happy thing. I find that my grandfather had a half-brother of whom I did not know, a much older man born from a brief, early marriage. He married in turn, but late in life, and his daughter—a widow—and his young grand-daughter live in genteel poverty. My lawyer has ascertained that they would be the next to inherit. I invited them to stay and they were able to spend a week with me. They are good and worthy people, and I have also arranged that they should receive a portion of my own income until the inheritance comes to the girl, as it will in time.” She stood. “I can only thank you, Mr. Holmes, for putting into my mind that I should discover who would inherit after me.”

  Holmes rose and shook her outstretched hand. “I am pleased that those you found are worthy of your estate,” he said. “It does not always fall out so well.”

  I knew he was thinking that Miss Dimberly’s heirs would have nothing to blush for in her, whereas if Miss Irene ever knew the half of her brother’s doings she would be wounded and mortified beyond belief. But that is the way of the world.

  I should perhaps mention that a well-to-do breeder of black and tan Manchester terriers saw Senator Brutus Cassius on a pleasant walk with his new owner. The man, a middle-aged widower of decisive nature, at once leaped from his carriage and solicited the lady. Not for her own favors, but for the use of the Senator as a stud dog. She agreed and in quite a short time it was her favor he was soliciting. They have now been wed almost a year and they do well together. The Senator, with a number of eager females at his command, does even better.

  And as for others, most involved in the case lived contentedly, while Holmes, having been well paid by three of them, all grateful that his investigations had revealed their innocence, took me on holiday to Cornwall, where I had the opportunity, as I have said, of testing the efficacy of my colleague’s salve. We returned to find a desperate man who needed our aid, but that tale is for another time. Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof.