Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes, The, The

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Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes, The, The Page 3

by Thomson, June


  ‘“Because Mrs Huxtable is in poor health and relies on my companionship, it would be very difficult for me to come to London to consult you and, although I am aware I am imposing heavily on your generosity, I wondered if it might be possible to meet you in Brighton one afternoon between two o’clock and three o’clock when Mrs Huxtable has her afternoon rest to discuss the matter with you?

  ‘“I remain, sir, Yours etc. Edith Pilkington.”

  ‘Well, Watson, what do you make of that?’ Holmes continued, folding up the letter and returning it to its envelope.

  ‘Make of it, Holmes? I am not sure I make anything of it. It sounds a straightforward enough appeal, although in my opinion she is expecting quite a lot of both your generosity and your time.’

  ‘No, no, my dear fellow. You do not understand,’ Holmes broke in impatiently. ‘Neither my time nor my beneficence have anything to do with it. It is the situation which is important. Think back a few years. Do you recall a remark I once made regarding foxes and stray chickens?’

  ‘Really, Holmes!’ I began to protest but he overrode me.

  ‘Concerning an exceptionally astute and dangerous man?’

  As I remained silent, cudgelling my brains to call up any incident from the past which might fit this description, Holmes continued, ‘Oh, come, Watson! Your memory deteriorates year by year. You should exercise it as one would exercise any part of one’s physical body. Think of your mind as a set of drawers in which you store any information which could be useful to your requirements. Then, when you have need for any of it, you simply open that particular drawer and – hey presto! – the facts are lying there ready to be used.’

  He paused for a moment before continuing, ‘I see from your expression that all your drawers are not only closed but securely locked as well. Allow me, then, to provide you with a key to at least one of them. Does the name “Holy Peters” free any recollections for you?’

  ‘Oh, of course, Holmes!’ I exclaimed, light suddenly dawning. ‘The case of Lady Frances Carfax and that unspeakable clergyman and his wife who attempted to murder her in order to steal her jewels. Now what on earth was his real name?’1

  Holmes began to chuckle.

  ‘I shall not extend this memory game any further, my dear fellow. It could go on all morning. So let me bring it to a halt by telling you that his name, at least at the time of the Carfax inquiry, was the Rev. Dr Schlessinger and he claimed to be a missionary from South America, whereas he was, in fact, an Australian by birth and one of the most unscrupulous rogues that country has ever produced. His so-called wife, although I doubt if their relationship was ever legally sanctioned, was English and her real name was Annie Fraser. They made their living by preying on lonely spinsters or widows, stripping them of any financial assets they might possess – money, jewels, bonds – anything that could be turned into ready cash. And once their victim had been bled dry, they had no compunction about dispensing with her as well, either by abandoning her in some out-of-the-way foreign pension or disposing of her literally, as they attempted to do in the case of Lady Frances Carfax.

  ‘I believe at the time I described such women as “stray chickens in a world of foxes”, an apt simile and one that I am convinced can be applied with equal validity to Dr Wilberforce and his sister, who my intuition tells me are none other than the Rev. Dr Schlessinger and his wife reincarnated in Brighton.’

  ‘Then we must act at once, Holmes!’ I declared, remembering with horror the fate that almost befell Lady Frances Carfax2 who, had not Holmes intervened at the last moment, would have been buried alive.

  ‘My thought exactly,’ Holmes agreed, getting up from the table and fetching his coat and stick. ‘I propose sending a telegram this very minute.’

  ‘To Inspector Lestrade?’

  ‘Not yet, Watson. First we must begin by making sure of our ground. At the moment, we have nothing but supposition. We need facts first and then a strategy to go with them.’

  Before I could offer to accompany him, he strode purposefully from the room. Seconds later, I heard the street door slam shut behind him.

  He returned within the hour looking jubilant.

  ‘The first hurdle has been crossed,’ he announced. ‘As the mountain cannot come to Mahomet, Mahomet shall go to the mountain. I have sent a telegram to Miss Pilkington at the Regal Hotel, arranging to meet her in Brighton this afternoon.’

  ‘At the hotel?’

  ‘No, no, my dear fellow! That would be folly indeed. If you recall, we met Holy Peters face to face at his lodgings in Poultney Square during the Carfax inquiry. He would recognise us at once. I have suggested to Miss Pilkington that she leaves the Regal on the dot of a quarter past two, ostentatiously carrying something in her right hand so that we may identify her, and proceeds to some suitable venue, where we shall meet to discuss the situation. That is the first step. If I am convinced that Dr Wilberforce is indeed Holy Peters, then we can take the second step, which is to book ourselves rooms in the same hotel.’

  As I was about to protest at this suggestion, Holmes smiled and held up his hand.

  ‘Rest assured, Watson, that if we do so, Holy Peters will not recognise us for the simple reason that we shall be disguised. Now, be a good fellow and pass me the Bradshaw3 and I shall look up the next suitable train to Brighton.’ It was with considerable anticipation that I set off with Holmes later that morning for Victoria station.

  It was some time since I had accompanied him on a mission and I felt my pulses quicken at the prospect, more especially in this case, for I recalled with a shudder of revulsion that loathsome duo of Holy Peters and his female accomplice. Life with Holmes seldom lacked interest and I realised how much I owed him not only in friendship and companionship but also in that zest for adventure which he always aroused in me.

  We arrived in Brighton with a good half an hour to spare before our assignment with Miss Pilkington, and spent the intervening time sauntering up and down the esplanade with the other holidaymakers, enjoying the sun, the sea breeze and the general air of pleasure and relaxation. The prospect was superb. To our left lay the glittering sea and the crowded beach, blossoming like a herbaceous border with gaily coloured parasols; to our right the long splendid vista of hotels and restaurants, their façades painted in pastel shades of vanilla and peach and the pale yellow of rich clotted cream, resembling so many delicious pastries temptingly laid out for our delectation.

  The Regal was one of the larger hotels, with a glassed-in veranda running the entire length of its ground floor in which we could glimpse some of its guests lounging on steamer chairs amid a miniature grove of potted palms. Waiters moved softly between them bearing trays of tall glasses which appeared at that distance to contain iced sherbet or cordials, or perhaps strawberry ice cream.

  At the next corner, directly opposite the newly opened Palace Pier, Holmes consulted his watch and, with a sideways glance at me, remarked, ‘It is time we kept our rendezvous with Miss Pilkington, Watson.’

  We strolled back towards the Regal Hotel in a leisurely manner and were just drawing level with the steps leading up to its entrance when the doors were thrown open by a flunkey and a small figure dressed in grey emerged from the foyer and, pausing to glance up and down the seafront, set off purposefully along the esplanade in front of us. We were not more than ten yards away and we could see quite clearly the folded newspaper she was carrying in her right hand.

  ‘Our correspondent, I think,’ Holmes remarked as we fell in behind her, keeping our distance but making sure we did not lose sight of her among the crowds.

  We continued in this manner for several minutes until, with a backward glance at us, she turned down a side street and entered a modest little tea shop with lace curtains at the window and a sign, ‘The Copper Kettle’, hanging above the door. Holmes and I followed her inside and joined her at a small round table tucked away in a discreet corner.

  ‘Miss Pilkington, I assume?’ Holmes remarked pleasantly. ‘I am Sherl
ock Holmes. May I introduce my colleague, Dr Watson?’

  We shook hands in turn with a short, plain, little woman in her fifties, I estimated, with grey hair drawn back into a neat, no-nonsense bun and whose crisp, forthright manner suggested an experienced governess or schoolmistress.

  ‘Now,’ Holmes continued as all three of us were seated and he had ordered tea and cakes from the elderly waitress, ‘as I stated in my telegram to you, Miss Pilkington, I am most interested in the account you put before me in your letter, but before I take the matter any further, there are certain facts which I must first establish. You will, I trust, have no objection to that?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Miss Pilkington replied. ‘I am only too happy to assist you as it is the facts of the situation regarding my employer, Mrs Huxtable, that are causing me so much disquiet. I wish to know if these new acquaintances of hers, Dr Wilberforce and his sister, are to be trusted.’

  ‘Ah, Dr Wilberforce!’ Holmes murmured. ‘Could you please give me a few details about him? His age, for example, and his appearance?’

  ‘Well,’ Miss Pilkington drew a deep breath before beginning an account of such fluency that I suspected she had rehearsed it in her mind several times already, ‘Dr Wilberforce is a well-built, middle-aged man, bald-headed and clean-shaven, with a rather florid complexion.’

  ‘An excellent description!’ Holmes remarked and I was amused to notice that she blushed a becoming pink at the compliment. When he wished to, my old friend had an enviable talent for setting his clients, especially women, at their ease.4 ‘Now were there any distinguishing features about him that you also noticed, such as a scar or a birthmark?’

  As he spoke, he cast a quick sideways glance in my direction as if to draw my attention to a certain significance in his remark, but it meant nothing to me at the time and neither, apparently, to Miss Pilkington, who shook her head.

  ‘Not that I noticed,’ she replied.

  Holmes seemed disappointed but continued smoothly as if her answer had had no effect on him at all, ‘Very well, then. Let us move to another aspect of the matter, that of the doctor’s personality. What was it about him that roused your suspicions?’

  This time Miss Pilkington hesitated before speaking, which made me conclude that she had not given this side of the matter the same attention she had applied to his physical appearance and that probably she was relying on her intuition rather than any rational consideration. However, after a long moment she said in a rapid little burst of words, ‘It sounds ridiculous, Mr Holmes, but he smiles too much.’

  ‘Ah!’ Holmes said softly as if he perfectly understood. ‘“A man may smile and smile and be a villain.”’

  Miss Pilkington’s face lit up.

  ‘Shakespeare, is it not, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘Indeed it is; from Hamlet, to be precise, and refers to Claudius, one of the Bard’s most cunning villains.’

  ‘Together with Iago,’ she riposted, before adding with greater certainty, ‘I feel most strongly that he and his sister have wheedled their way into Mrs Huxtable’s good books with dubious intentions.’

  ‘Is that your belief? Then tell me about your employer, Mrs Huxtable,’ Holmes continued, leaning back in his chair in a comfortable manner, inviting her confidence. ‘How old is she, for instance? I deduce from your letter that she is in her late sixties. Am I correct?’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘And she is also a widow in poor health?’

  ‘Her late husband was George W. Huxtable, a manufacturer of Sheffield tableware.5 They had no children and as far as I can ascertain there are no close relatives. He died about four years ago, leaving the house and a considerable fortune to his widow. After his death, she advertised for a companion to accompany her on foreign travel. As I have lived abroad for several years – tutoring the children at various embassies and overseas delegations – and wanted a change of occupation, I applied for the post and Mrs Huxtable engaged me. Since then we have been travelling on the Continent together, largely in the Mediterranean, staying at spas and seaside resorts. She suffers from a bronchial complaint, you see, and her doctor has advised a dry, warm climate. We returned to England this summer so that Mrs Huxtable could settle one or two financial arrangements with her bank and oversee the sale of the house in Sheffield, which she had been leasing to tenants. The transaction took longer than expected and, rather than remain in London during the height of summer, she decided to move to Brighton so that her agent and solicitor could visit her fairly easily by train.’

  ‘Tell me about Dr Wilberforce and his sister. How did they become acquainted with Mrs Huxtable?’

  ‘That is another aspect of the situation which causes me anxiety,’ Miss Pilkington continued. ‘They were already staying at the Regal when we arrived, and as soon as they met that first morning at breakfast, they seemed – now, how can I describe it? – drawn to her like bees to a honeypot. She is a lonely lady and was greatly flattered by their attentions, particularly those of Dr Wilberforce.’

  ‘And the sister? What can you tell me about her?’

  ‘Judging by her accent, she seems to be of English origin. His accent is difficult to define but is definitely not English.’

  ‘South American?’ Holmes suggested.

  ‘Possibly.’ Miss Pilkington sounded dubious.

  ‘Or Australian?’

  ‘That is more likely,’ she agreed. ‘But I would not wish to swear to it. I am not well acquainted with Australian speech. She is a tall lady with a strong personality, I would have said, although she is much overshadowed by her brother, if that is indeed the relationship between them.’

  ‘You doubt it?’ Holmes inquired sharply.

  ‘I can see very little physical resemblance between the two of them but that is no real proof, is it? They could be half-brother and -sister or step-relations. But whatever the connection, Miss Wilberforce is closely involved with the doctor.’ Reaching into her reticule, she produced a small oblong of white cardboard which she passed to Holmes. ‘I found this in Mrs Huxtable’s pocket yesterday evening when I hung up her clothes. She herself has not yet noticed it is missing but, knowing you were coming today, I thought it might be of interest to you.’

  After looking at it carefully, Holmes passed it to me so that I, too, could read the words printed on it, which were: ‘The Hollies, Randolph Road, Harrogate, Yorkshire. Private Spa Treatments for Rheumatism and other Related Illnesses, including Circulatory Complaints, Chest and Lung Ailments, Blood and Heart Disorders and General Infirmities. Remedies include Hydrotherapy, Mesmerism, Galvanism, Magnetism and Herbal Physic under the Strict Supervision of a Fully Qualified Physician and Matron.’

  ‘A very comprehensive list indeed. It seems to cater for all the ailments that flesh is heir to,’ Holmes commented wryly, passing the card back to Miss Pilkington, who replaced it in her reticule. ‘I assume the matron is none other than Miss Wilberforce?’

  ‘That was my assumption,’ Miss Pilkington agreed, adding with an anxious air, ‘Will you take the case, Mr Holmes? I am becoming more and more concerned about Mrs Huxtable’s well-being. She spoke this morning about seeking treatment for her breathing difficulties and I fear she may turn to the Wilberforces for help. I should very much like to know more about them before she places herself in their care.’

  ‘I understand your concern and shall indeed make inquiries on your behalf. By the way, is there any chance of our covertly observing Dr Wilberforce, and also his sister if that is possible? I should prefer a more public setting than the foyer or the dining room of the Regal Hotel, say, where they are more likely to be aware of the scrutiny of other people.’

  ‘I believe I know the very place, Mr Holmes!’ Miss Pilkington declared. ‘Dr Wilberforce is in the habit of taking a stroll along the Palace Pier at about eleven o’clock each morning before returning to the hotel for luncheon. His sister sometimes accompanies him.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Holmes declared. ‘Then that is one aspect of t
he case which is already settled. Are there any questions you would like to ask me before we take our leave?’

  Miss Pilkington looked embarrassed.

  ‘About your fees, Mr Holmes …’ she began.

  Holmes waved an airy hand.

  ‘Do not concern yourself with those, Miss Pilkington. I am sure we can come to some amicable arrangement. Now, Dr Watson and I will return to London, where I shall immediately telegraph the manager of the Regal Hotel requesting a booking for two rooms for tomorrow evening. And I should warn you not to be surprised if we have changed our appearances as well as our names when you next see us. You see, we have met Dr Wilberforce and his sister before under other circumstances and it would ruin our plans if either of them should recognise us on this occasion. You must behave as if you have never seen us before.’

  ‘What plans?’ I inquired when, having paid the bill and taken leave of Miss Pilkington, we emerged from the Copper Kettle into the dazzling sunshine.

  ‘To lay the Wilberforces by the heels, of course,’ he replied crisply. ‘There should be no difficulty in identifying Dr Wilberforce as Holy Peters. Judging by your lack of response, Watson, when I asked Miss Pilkington if Dr Wilberforce had any distinguishing marks or scars, you have clearly forgotten that Holy Peters was bitten on the ear in a bar-room brawl in Adelaide in ’89, which has literally left a mark.6 However, he may have tried to alter his appearance in certain ways, grown a beard or dyed his hair, for instance. He has evidently changed his lure …’

  ‘Lure?’ I asked, puzzled by his use of the word.

  ‘My dear Watson, do try not to be obtuse. I am referring to his speciality in using religion to tempt his victims into his net. It was for this reason he earned the soubriquet of Holy Peters. Apparently he has abandoned this ploy for another equally attractive to lonely ladies of a certain age who like to talk about themselves, in particular their health. So we may assume his title of “Doctor” refers in this particular instance not to any assumed religious qualification but rather to a medical degree. However, no matter what changes he makes to his name or professional title, he cannot change that one detail of his appearance, his damaged ear, which will identify him beyond any doubt. And as soon as this can be established, then he and his sister can pay the price they owe to justice, for it is time those unspeakable villains were behind bars for the attempted murder of Lady Frances Carfax.’ He broke off to hail a passing cab. Having hustled me inside and given the driver the instruction to take us to the railway station, he added, ‘I am sorry to cut short our little excursion to the seaside, my dear fellow, but, God willing, we shall return tomorrow to make free of the delights of sea, sun and sand which this charming town has to offer.’

 

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