Sherlock Holmes Page 11
I admit that for the first time in many months, I was able to relax and enjoy myself, putting all thoughts of the war, and of Joseph, out of mind – at least for a few hours.
Holmes spent the rest of the evening deep in discussion with Foxton, who seemed a jovial, generous host, and genuinely interested in hearing more of Holmes’s methods, and as the evening drew on, even his theories on the hive intelligence of bees.
Percy Cranston had made friends – and I use the term most loosely – amongst a group of merchant bankers, and had settled at the other end of the long dining table, mercifully out of earshot.
Seaton Underwood was nowhere to be seen, and I gathered the young man must have taken his repast in his rooms.
As the evening wore on and people began to peel away, I found my thoughts turning to home, and was only too happy to accept the offer of a lift from Newbury, who explained that he had his automobile parked in the driveway. Angelchrist made his excuses and left with two other men, and I gathered from his sudden change in demeanour that he still had business of some sort to attend to. I admired his dedication, as well as his stamina. I was ready for very little save for my bed.
We gave our thanks to Lord Foxton for his hospitality and bid him goodnight, and after Brown had retrieved our coats, made our way out into the crisp night. The cold breeze was reviving, although it had the effect of reminding me quite how much wine I’d enjoyed with my dinner.
I settled into the back seat of Newbury’s sleek-looking motorcar, and found that even my usual trepidation around such vehicles was dispelled.
Holmes took the passenger seat, while Newbury slipped into the driver’s seat a moment later. He turned the key in the ignition, gunned the accelerator, and we slid away along the driveway, the headlamp cutting a narrow beam through the darkness.
“Well, Holmes?” I said, once we’d passed through the gates at the edge of the estate, purring out onto the road that would take us back toward the city.
“A most enlightening evening,” said Holmes. “Did you note, Watson, the rather conspicuous presence of an amber paperweight, marked with a five-pointed star?”
“I did,” I confirmed. “Resting on a pile of books, close to that infernal contraption.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes. “Tell me – what do you make of Underwood’s so-called ‘spectrograph generator’?”
“Truthfully, I am at a loss,” I said. “I find it difficult to assess the veracity of his claims. Difficult to believe them, too. Yet…” I paused for a moment, trying to articulate my sentiment, “Yet without further evidence, I cannot be sure either way.” I sighed. “They’re probably just hokum. Parlour games, just like Foxton intimated.”
“And you, Sir Maurice?” said Holmes.
I saw Newbury eyeing at me in the rear-view mirror. “I found it quite remarkable, Mr. Holmes, for many reasons – the sheer invention on display, the vibrancy of those colours he’s achieved in his prints – yet I cannot bring myself to draw the same conclusions as Mr. Underwood. Whatever those vaporous structures are in his pictures, I am sceptical they represent a schematic of the human soul.”
Holmes nodded, but said nothing. We burred along the road, heading toward the distant lights of London.
* * *
Newbury dropped us back in Ealing a short while later, wishing us a good night. I offered him a nightcap, but he seemed as anxious as I was for bed, and suggested I telephone him in a day or two when we’d had time to pursue our other leads. We waved him off from the gate as he roared away down the street.
“So, you remain unconvinced that the spectrographs are connected to Grange’s death?” I said, as I turned my key in the lock and bustled into the house. Holmes stepped in behind me, draping his coat over the end of the banister.
“To speculate is to commit the worst of follies, Watson,” replied Holmes. “I need more data before I am able to assemble a full picture.”
“But you do believe that Grange was somehow involved with both Underwood and Baxter, and indeed, that they are similarly involved with one another?” I said. “Surely the photographs and the paperweight are evidence enough of that.”
“I do not doubt there is a connection,” said Holmes, “nor that Grange was part of something – although I do not believe he was directly involved in whatever devilry has gripped young Underwood. There is much still to be considered. For a start, the question remains: why is Mycroft so interested in the fate of this one man, Grange?”
“Couldn’t you simply ask him?” I ventured.
“I fear not. To do so would only risk damaging whatever subtle web he is weaving. No, we need to play our part, and trust that Mycroft can look after his own.” Holmes entered the drawing room and, in the pale moonlight that was pouring in through the open curtains, searched out his pipe and tobacco pouch. I foresaw a night of deep contemplation ahead.
“Subtle web?” I ventured.
Holmes nodded. “There’s a reason my brother brought us into this matter in the way that he did, painting a picture of three unexplained suicides, and talking of his fears for the spirit of the nation. To bring him into it now might disrupt the intended outcome of his plans.”
I shook my head. “I’ve never been able to understand your relationship with your brother, Holmes. It seems darned odd to me that a man can’t simply pick up a telephone and ask a simple question.”
Holmes laughed, throwing back his head and causing me to flush hotly with embarrassment. “Oh, my dear Watson,” he said, after a moment. “It is not a matter of what information Mycroft may or may not be in a position to divulge, but more a case of what he needs of us. If we were to discern from him the other fragments of this puzzle at this delicate stage in our investigation, we risk altering our behaviour, and therefore unduly affecting the behaviour of the other players. Be under no pretence, Watson: lies, secrets and duplicity are at the heart of this matter. We must trust no one, save for our own council.”
I sighed. Clearly, whatever game was being played here was somewhat beyond me. “A subtle web indeed,” I said, resignedly. I resolved to leave the politicking to Holmes.
“Then what next? Surely that paperweight represents a clear line of enquiry?”
“Quite so, Watson,” replied Holmes. “I think it would serve us well to clarify the connection, if any, between Baxter and Underwood. You may recall Baxter’s words to us at the bank, Watson – that his relationship with Lord Foxton was most definitely one of ‘acquaintance and not friendship’. I cannot help but wonder if there is more to that than Baxter would have us know.”
“What do you suggest?”
“That we get closer to Baxter, observe his movements,” said Holmes. “A great deal can be learned about a man through the careful study of his habits.”
“Very well,” I said. “Until tomorrow, then, Holmes. I fear my bed is calling to me.”
Holmes struck a match, carefully lighting his pipe. “Good night, Watson,” he said, between puffs. He settled back into my armchair, closing his eyes, his pipe clenched between his teeth.
I observed him for a moment, considering how good it was to see him after all this time, and then, smiling, I quit the room, pulling the door closed behind me.
CHAPTER NINE
The next morning I allowed myself to lounge in bed for a while, whilst Holmes pottered around the house. I heard him in the kitchen, clattering pots and cursing. The shrill whistle of the kettle followed this, and then, a short while later the front door opened and closed, and I realised he’d gone out.
I rose, saw to my ablutions, and dressed. As I had discerned, Holmes was nowhere to be seen, and an empty teacup rested on the coffee table beside my old, comfortable armchair. I sank into it for a few moments, considering the morning ahead of me.
Today was the day of Carter’s hastily arranged funeral. Mycroft – being the brother who, of the two siblings, had at least a modicum of empathy – had sent word, correctly surmising that I would wish to pay my respects.
I could not be angry with him for very long, however. I knew more than most that he found engagement with the real world a troublesome business. Indeed, I believe that his desire for solitude was the real motive behind his relocation to rural Sussex, despite his protestations to the contrary. His fascination with his bees was genuine enough, of course – his monographs were a testament to that – but his retirement was also a symptom of his need to retreat from the world at large. I remember thinking, on that day he first informed me of his plans to retire, that he had simply had enough of London and her errant children. I couldn’t, in all honesty, blame him.
Whatever the case, Holmes was not a man who engaged in society, so much as observed it from the periphery. Of course, this played to his advantage in so many ways, allowing him to adopt an aloof, uninvolved perspective when involved in a case, or to question those attitudes that appeared so natural to the casual observer, but might prove crucial in getting to the bottom of a mystery. Only, such a perspective brought with it a terrible curse, for Holmes was perpetually on the outside of life, and never quite able to come in.
I glanced at the carriage clock on the mantel. It was approaching ten o’clock, but despite having not eaten since early the previous evening, I found I had no appetite. My mind kept on returning to thoughts of young Joseph, and I couldn’t help but wonder – what if Seaton Underwood was right? What if the human soul really was capable of existing independently of the physical body? Could that mean that somewhere my nephew was at peace, having left his corporeal existence far behind him?
As a medical man, and after long years at Holmes’s elbow, I have always valued empirical evidence over blind faith in such matters. Now, however, presented with something akin to evidence, I had begun to wonder. Had I been wrong all these years? The notion offered me the slightest glimmer of comfort. It was attractive to consider that Underwood’s spectrographs might have some veracity, that for those whose names filled the casualty lists day after day, there might be something beyond the finality of a bullet.
Framing my thoughts in such a way helped me to brave the morning’s endeavours, and so, after forcing myself to eat a slice of toast and marmalade, I changed into my formal attire and left for St. Bartholomew’s church, where the service was to be held.
* * *
Carter’s funeral passed without incident, and while it was a rather humble affair, the eulogy was delivered with great respect by the minister. Mycroft’s office had provided a truly spectacular wreath, and while I had thought Mycroft himself might have put in an appearance, it was clear he was engaged with other matters.
In many ways I felt like an interloper at the graveside, being the only mourner who was not a member of the boy’s family, but a word with his mother at the close of the ceremony made everything clear – Carter’s young friends were all far away in France, busy with their own struggles of life and death.
I returned home feeling more morose than ever, to find Holmes had once again taken up residence beside the fireplace. He was puffing on his pipe, and he looked up when I entered the room. “Ah, Watson. I trust you gave the family our best regards?”
“I did, Holmes,” I said. “Although I am unsure whether they really heard my platitudes. It is a universal truth that no parent should be forced to outlive their children.” I sighed, crossing the room to switch on the lamp by the window.
“You are a good man, Watson,” said Holmes. “Better than most.” I stared at him, speechless, waiting for him to qualify his statement with the expected barb. It did not come. “Do not allow the misery of this world to encroach any further upon your good nature,” he went on. “It would be a grave loss indeed. We may yet have need of your fortitude.”
“I… I…” I started. “Well, thank you, Holmes,” I said, finally finding my words. “I can’t tell you how much that means to me.” I coughed, disguising a sudden, unseemly show of emotion. I had never once heard him compliment me in such a fashion.
Holmes waved the stem of his pipe in my direction. “Good, good, Watson. Then perhaps,” he said, “you might see to another pot of tea while you’re about. We must fortify ourselves before the evening’s pursuits.” He looked up at me expectantly.
“By George,” I said, laughing. “You don’t change, Holmes.”
“See to it that I might yet say the same of you, Watson,” he replied, as I slipped my jacket off and headed to the kitchen.
* * *
“So, this is what you were up to all morning, Holmes,” I said, blowing into my cupped hands for warmth.
It was around five o’clock in the afternoon that same day, and Holmes and I were lurking on a street corner in Belgravia, carrying out a clandestine surveillance of the home of Henry Baxter. I was wearing only a light suit, and the breeze was up, the air unseasonably cold. I longed for my gloves, or better still, the warmth of my fire. My old war injury had begun to play up in the cold, and so I’d brought my walking stick along with me to lean upon.
Holmes smiled. “Quite so, Watson. I was able to develop a clear picture of Baxter’s early morning routine.” He looked pleased with himself. “He rises around seven thirty, washes and shaves, and takes his breakfast in his dressing gown at eight. Following this, he opens the morning post, brought to him on a silver platter by his valet. He then dresses. At a quarter to nine his driver brings the motorcar around to the front of the house, and Baxter leaves for the short drive to Tidwell Bank.”
I sighed. “You’re going to have to explain to me, Holmes, what possible use this information might be. It sounds like a perfectly normal morning routine for a well-to-do businessman.”
“Ah, yes, Watson. But that, in itself, tells us something, does it not?” said Holmes, tapping his chin with his index finger.
“And what would that be?” I asked. I fear I was feeling somewhat perturbed, having been dragged out for an evening of standing around, spying on people, and was taking my crotchety mood out on Holmes. I was getting too old for this sort of business, and my bones were beginning to ache.
“Now, Watson,” continued Holmes, apparently oblivious to my curmudgeonly demeanour, “I’d wager the hour is near.” He turned to regard the house. He did not elaborate any further, and I decided not to press the point. We were here, and we had a job to do. I might not like it, but I would see it done. I studied the building, attempting to discern anything of interest.
Quillcroft House was an ostentatious sort of place, recently built to the modern design. It was a detached residence, standing in a small but well-tended plot. Two rather pretentious stone lions lounged atop the gateposts, eyeing unwary visitors.
The curtains of the upper windows were open but there was no sign of movement. The downstairs windows revealed nothing more than the occasional glimpse of a passing housemaid.
I blew into my cold hands again, waited, and watched.
Half an hour passed. I was still feeling the cold, and beginning to wish that I’d remembered to bring my trusty old hipflask along with me, when we saw a sleek motorcar come rattling down the road and pull up outside the house. It was a smart, distinctive model in racing green, with white trim around the windows.
We both ducked lower, anxious to remain out of sight.
The vehicle’s door opened, and a man whom I immediately recognised as Baxter stepped down from the footplate. He thanked the driver, slammed the door, and the machine purred away, leaving a trail of oily exhaust fumes behind it.
Baxter glanced from left to right, and then opened his front gate and passed through, allowing it to swing shut behind him. Moments later, he had disappeared inside the house.
“Well, that was worth waiting for,” I muttered sarcastically.
Holmes – who had moved us into the neighbouring garden and was crouched behind a conifer – shushed me and waved his hand for me to stay down.
“Very well,” I whispered, returning to
my stooped, uncomfortable position beside him. “But I’m not sure how much longer I can put up with this, Holmes. It’s a rum state of affairs, a younger man’s game. Couldn’t we have some of Foulkes’s men out here, keeping an eye on the place and reporting back to us with the details?”
I glanced at Holmes. If he’d heard my brief tirade he showed no sign of it. He was utterly absorbed in his observation of the house and street.
“Holmes,” I said, “Holmes?”
“Look, Watson,” he said, ignoring me and pointing toward the other end of the street. A lone figure was walking in our direction, on the other side of the road. He was a dark-haired man, tall and thin and wearing a long raincoat, the collar of which was turned up, obscuring much of his lower face. He walked with a slight stoop.
Holmes and I waited in silence, watching as the man drew steadily closer. The man seemed familiar. I squinted, attempting to discern his features – and then it struck me. I had seen him before. “Is that…?” I whispered.
“Yes, Watson,” replied Holmes, the words barely audible on his breath. “It’s Seaton Underwood.”
“Well, I’ll be,” I muttered.
Underwood stopped at the gate to Baxter’s house and, parroting Baxter’s earlier ritual, glanced in both directions along the street before opening the gate and walking to the front door. He rapped loudly three times and stood back, stamping his feet on the bottom step.
A few moments later the door opened, and an elderly woman – whom I took to be Baxter’s housekeeper – opened the door and permitted him entry.
“Well,” I said, straightening my back, “that’s an unexpected development. Proof positive that there’s a connection between the two men, just as you suggested. I wonder what the devil they’re up to?”
“What the devil indeed,” said Holmes, with a sly look.