Sherlock Holmes Read online

  “What now?” I asked, hopeful that, with this new development, Holmes had all he needed to cogitate on our next course of action, preferably from the comfort of my armchair back in Ealing.

  “I have a suspicion, Watson, that it won’t be long until they’re on the move,” said Holmes. “If they leave together, we must follow them and discover their destination. It could be vital.”

  “Very well,” I said, containing a sigh. I could see Holmes was onto something, and I admit, I was as anxious now to see the matter through as he was.

  Around twenty minutes later, just as I was beginning to grow impatient, two figures emerged from the house. They both had their collars turned up, but it was easy enough to see that it was Baxter and Underwood, leaving together just as Holmes had anticipated they might.

  Beside me, Holmes stirred. I glanced at him, and he put a finger to his lips. He crept along the length of the garden hedge, peering over the top at the two figures as they exchanged a few indecipherable words and set off, taking a right turn at the bottom of Baxter’s garden path.

  We waited a few moments and started after them, trailing at a reasonable distance. We kept to what shadows there were on a summer’s evening, hanging back from our quarry.

  The two men walked side by side, deep in conversation, but they talked in hushed tones, and aside from the occasional burst of laughter, I was unable to hear any of what passed between them.

  We followed them for about a mile through the quiet streets, which grew steadily busier the closer we came to Knightsbridge. Most of the men we passed were office workers, slowly drifting home from their jobs in the City, wearing hassled expressions and lugging briefcases under their arms. The occasional automobile or carriage rumbled by, but Baxter and Underwood paid them no heed. They were tracing a familiar route, I realised, comfortable in each other’s company and falling into a regular, steady rhythm. They seemed unconcerned that anyone might be following them. All of this, I knew, was a sure sign that they had walked these streets together many times before.

  Up ahead, Baxter and Underwood turned a corner and Holmes waved for me to hurry. We dashed after them, rushing along the side of a large hotel. I was fearful that we might lose them in the street, or that they might take an unseen turn into an alleyway or building.

  As it transpired, the two men were still within view when I reached the corner, and what was more, were standing outside a familiar building: the entrance to Tidwell Bank.

  Baxter was fishing in his pocket for a ring of keys, which he withdrew a moment later. He selected one and opened the front door and entered, beckoning Underwood inside. He then proceeded to lock the door behind him.

  Holmes waited for a moment, and then beckoned me on. We strolled hurriedly past the building, glancing in through the barred windows as we walked. Inside the bank the lights remained off, and there was no sign of either Baxter or Underwood.

  We paused at the other end of the street, huddling into a brief conference.

  “What the devil are they doing visiting the bank at this hour?” I said.

  Holmes consulted his pocket watch. He showed me the dial. It was approaching seven o’clock. “I have a suspicion, Watson, that the answer to that question will provide the insight we need to get to the bottom of what truly happened to Herbert Grange.”

  “Then we should go after them?” I ventured. “Knock on the door until Baxter lets us in?”

  Holmes shook his head. “We are unprepared for such a confrontation. No, I believe further investigation is required. Tomorrow, if you are willing, you might return to Ravensthorpe House and put a question to Lord Foxton, regarding Underwood’s relationship to Baxter.”

  “Of course,” I said. “And you, Holmes? Will you not come with me?”

  Holmes shook his head. “Indeed not, Watson. I shall continue my observations of Baxter.”

  “Very well,” I said.

  “Good man, Watson,” said Holmes. “Now, come. Let us take our leave. I’d wager there are others expected at the bank this evening, and it would not do for us to be seen. I do not wish to show our hand too early.”

  “That’s the best idea you’ve had all night, Holmes,” I replied, with feeling.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It felt a trifle strange returning to Ravensthorpe House so soon after my previous visit. Holmes, however, had insisted that I come alone. In his wisdom, he felt that Lord Foxton might be more disposed to elaborate on the relationship between Underwood and Baxter if the questions were put to him by – as Holmes put it – “a man of my mild disposition”.

  In truth, I suspected that Holmes was simply more concerned with the other plans that he had hinted at the previous evening. Nevertheless, this was not a new position in which I found myself – heading out alone on a mission to gather intelligence for Holmes – and the distraction was a welcome one.

  I called ahead to ensure that Foxton would be able to see me that morning, and the old man, Brown, was most accommodating, explaining that if I was sure to call in the morning, rather than the afternoon, I should find Foxton available and happy to speak with me.

  It was, of course, my intention also to speak again with Seaton Underwood. Holmes had tasked me with discovering whether Underwood would admit to his evening rendezvous with Baxter, or would attempt to cover it up and provide himself with an alibi.

  Upon the approach, the house looked just as splendid as it had the other night. However, as I drew closer, I began to realise my initial impressions had perhaps been a little coloured by the beautiful surroundings.

  In the full light of day it was clear the building was more dilapidated than it had at first appeared. A number of the roof tiles were missing and a carpet of thick, green moss was making its presence felt, slowly subsuming the east wing like a hungry parasite. Mildew stained many of the upper windows in that part of the house, and it appeared largely uncared for and disused. Clearly, Foxton, Underwood and their servants now inhabited only a small part of the sprawling property.

  Once, I would have given my eyeteeth to live in such splendour, regardless of the apparent disrepair. Now, though, I craved a more frugal existence. I had no need for such lavishness, nor for the associated difficulties it would bring. In all my years accompanying Holmes on his investigations, I had learned that such grand estates always came at a terrible price – the envy of others. Time and again, I had seen people do terrible things to one another for the slightest glimpse of a fortune.

  My conveyance stuttered to a halt. Once again I had come via horse and carriage, and as I dropped down from the box, my feet crunching in the gravel, I saw Brown standing in the doorway.

  I paid the driver and told him to park up and wait for me, then trudged up to the house. Brown greeted me in the portico. “Good morning, Dr., ah…”

  “Watson,” I said. “Dr. John Watson. We spoke on the telephone.”

  “Quite so, sir,” replied Brown, carrying on as if I hadn’t had to remind him. “Quite so. Lord Foxton is waiting for you in the library. May I take your coat?”

  I handed it to him as we ambled sedately into the house.

  “This way, sir,” he said. He led me, once again, along the side of the staircase to where the passage narrowed, but this time took a sharp right into a further passage, and indicated a door on the left. “There you are, sir. Could I fetch you a drink?”

  “A pot of tea would be most welcome,” I said. “Thank you.” Brown pottered off to make the necessary arrangements.

  The door to the library was slightly ajar, and I rapped on it three times before pushing it open.

  Foxton sat in a burgundy leather armchair, a book resting open upon his lap. He was dressed in a tweed suit, with a white shirt and mustard-coloured jumper beneath his jacket. He looked up and offered me a welcoming smile when he saw me hovering in the doorway. “Good day to you, Dr. Watson,” he said. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Come in, come in.”

  The library was a most impressive room, filled to burstin
g point with books. Unlike Underwood’s chaotic lair, however, this room was ordered and tidy. Foxton clearly had a system: his shelves were labelled, his books ordered by subject and author. It was a room clearly devised for a single purpose – to read in. There was no desk, no drinks cabinet, no other unwanted distractions. Aside from the books, the room contained only two armchairs and a small occasional table.

  The smell of the musty old pages filled my nostrils, and I sighed appreciatively. “Ah, now this is a room I can approve of,” I said, drinking it in.

  Foxton laughed. “I think, if you looked carefully, Dr. Watson, you’d find a number of your own literary endeavours nestling amongst the others on the shelves.”

  I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Your support is much appreciated, Lord Foxton. It appears to be a superb collection.”

  Foxton sighed. “What is life about, Dr. Watson, if it is not about literature? To my mind, all else is a distraction. I should happily idle away the rest of my days in the company of a good book.” He smiled. “Now, please, take a seat. I’ll arrange for Brown to bring tea.”

  “Ah, no need,” I said, somewhat self-conscious. “He’s already seeing to it.”

  Foxton laughed. “Good old Brown. Ever efficient.” He folded his book shut and placed it on the floor by his feet. I took a seat opposite him.

  I could see now that Holmes had been correct in his assertion – Foxton and I did appear to be of a similar temperament.

  “Now, tell me, Doctor – how may I be of assistance?” said Foxton. “Something to do with a case you’re investigating, I presume?”

  “Yes, I apologise if I was perhaps a little vague on the telephone, but I thought it best not to broadcast the reason for my visit to the rest of your household,” I said.

  Foxton frowned. He looked troubled. “Then am I to understand, Doctor, that your questions pertain directly to myself or my ward?”

  I nodded. “Specifically, to the relationship between Mr. Underwood and Henry Baxter, of Tidwell Bank.”

  There was an immediate change in Foxton’s demeanour at the mention of that name. His expression darkened, his eyes narrowed. “Ah,” he said, and there was a palpable reluctance in his voice. “I had hoped I’d managed to nip that business in the bud.” He fixed me with a look so intense that it felt as if his gaze was burrowing through me, such was his wish to underline his next point. “Mr. Henry Baxter is an odious wretch and he is not welcome in this house,” he said, “or any other in which I might assert an influence.”

  I was about to press him further, but hesitated at the sound of a rattling tea tray from just outside the door.

  “Come on in, Brown,” called Foxton, and the elderly butler shouldered open the door and bustled in with the tray. The teacups bounced in their saucers and rattled noisily as a result of his tremor.

  “Very good, sir.” Brown set the tea tray down on the occasional table and made a hasty retreat from the room, pulling the door to behind him.

  “Forgive me, Lord Foxton,” I said, “but might I ask you to elaborate on your obvious distaste for Henry Baxter?”

  Foxton ran a hand through his muss of silver-grey hair. “Well, yes, I suppose I must,” he replied. “You see, it’s all down to his relationship with Seaton.”

  “Relationship?” I queried.

  “Such as it is.” He sighed. “You must understand, Dr. Watson – Seaton is a very vulnerable young man. Are you aware of how he came into my care?”

  “I am not,” I said.

  “It was fifteen years ago, now. My family, as you may or may not be aware, made its fortune in the woollen industry. We still own a number of mills in the Home Counties and the Midlands. Seaton’s father was employed at one such mill. Philip Underwood was a good worker, a well-respected man, much liked by his peers. Handy with the machines, you see. The milling machines are prone to breaking down, and Underwood had a knack for fixing them.

  “It was during one such episode,” Foxton continued, “when production had been halted and one of the machines was jammed, that Underwood tried to mend it. Something went wrong – I’ve never been quite sure what – and he was killed as the machine started up again.”

  I winced at the thought of such a terrible death, although in itself, an accident in an industrial works was not uncommon. I’d heard similar stories a hundred times before.

  “Underwood’s wife, distraught, committed suicide a few days later. Seaton was only five years old – an orphan – and I felt responsible, you see?”

  Foxton’s eyes met mine, and I could see a genuine sadness in his expression. “I saw to it that the boy was placed in the care of a good local family, with an appropriate allowance. What else was there to do? I couldn’t allow him to be sent to the orphanage. After all, it was my fault, my mill, which had taken his parents away from him. It was the least I could do.”

  “That’s incredibly generous of you,” I said. I admit I was surprised by Foxton’s compassion. It seemed most progressive that a man in his position should even care about the orphan of a worker, let alone arrange to have the boy raised at his own expense. I could see now why Foxton had been such a prized acolyte of Asquith’s during the recent welfare reforms.

  “Of course, they told me I was mad – every one of them – that I couldn’t blame myself for something unavoidable.” Foxton shook his head. “Yet I proved them wrong. Given encouragement, the boy began to show an aptitude for science and mathematics. I arranged for his attendance at a good school, and when I heard talk of his abilities and dedication, I offered him a place here at the house during the holidays – somewhere he could continue his studies without pecuniary concerns.”

  “You became his sponsor?” I said.

  “In a manner of speaking,” confirmed Foxton. “I grew fond of the boy. We all did. I cared for him in the best way I could. I paid for his schooling, his upkeep, granted him an allowance. When he’d finished his studies he returned here to Ravensthorpe. In many ways he’s lived a privileged life.” He frowned. “None of that, however, can compensate for the fact he’s had to grow up without a mother and father.”

  “The poor lad,” I said, although in truth I also felt a deep sense of pity for Foxton himself, who had clearly been tormenting himself all these years for an accident that had been played out a hundred times since the growth of British industry.

  “The thing is, Doctor,” he said, “it left the boy scarred, impressionable; fragile, even. He’s constructed his entire existence around the notion that, one day, he might be reunited with his late parents.”

  “It’s a thought that comforts many,” I said. “Christianity is predicated upon the notion.”

  “Yes, but belief in itself is not enough for Seaton. He wants proof. Thus his preoccupation with that damnable machine. He’s fallen in with that spiritualist claptrap that seems all the rage these days. He’s obsessed with the idea that the spirits of his dead parents live on – that if he can prove that the human soul truly can exist independently of the body, then he might also prove that his parents still exist in some non-corporeal form.”

  “How terribly sad,” I offered. There was little else to be said.

  “It is a sickness, I think,” said Foxton, “for which there is no medicine.”

  I nodded, rendered mute by Foxton’s unexpected openness and the strength of feeling behind his words.

  “Right, tea then, Dr. Watson?” he said, deftly diverting the conversation before his emotions overwhelmed him.

  “Yes, thank you,” I said. “Most kind.”

  Foxton splashed a measure of the hot, brown liquid into a teacup and passed it to me. I saw to my own milk and sugar. “So, Baxter,” I said, still hopeful that I might gain some insight into the reason for Baxter and Underwood’s rendezvous the previous evening, “where does he fit in?”

  “Baxter is a manipulator, out for what he can get,” said Foxton. “He befriended Seaton during his visits to this house. He attended some of my parties, you see, be
fore I knew him for the man he really is. He used the opportunity to ingratiate himself with my ward and encouraged him in his foolish pursuits.”

  “In what way?”

  Foxton shrugged. “It seems Baxter believes all that rubbish. Before I knew it, he had Seaton attending séances and meetings in spiritualist circles. Seaton would return with his head full of nonsense, and as a consequence began to retreat further and further into himself. He no longer talked to me, and spent all of his time working on that machine, or reading books given to him by Baxter.”

  “What did you do?” I asked.

  “The only thing I could. I confronted Baxter and told him he was no longer welcome here. I warned him that if he didn’t sever all ties with Seaton then I would expose his little scam.”

  “His scam?”

  “Oh yes, Dr. Watson. I’m sure that’s what it was. I don’t believe for a moment that the man was actually interested in Seaton and his work. Rather that he was using it as an opportunity to get closer to my inner circle and myself, to attempt to assert a political influence. Seaton is simply an unfortunate pawn in Baxter’s game.”

  “I see,” I said. I wasn’t quite convinced by his logic – after all, filling a man’s head with spiritualism seemed a rather roundabout way of getting closer to his benefactor – but I didn’t want to interrupt Foxton’s flow. “So tell me – as far as you are aware, has Seaton abided by your wishes? To stay away from Baxter, I mean.”

  “Absolutely,” said Foxton. “He’s had nothing to do with Baxter for months.” I didn’t have the heart to tell the man that just the previous evening, Holmes and I had witnessed quite the contrary.

  “What is it that you suppose Baxter to have done?” asked Foxton suddenly, as I was taking a sip of my tea. “I understood from Professor Angelchrist that the case you were investigating was the unfortunate suicide of Herbert Grange. Is Baxter mixed up in all of that?”

  “Perhaps,” I said, a little guardedly.

  “Angelchrist said something about murder?”

  I hesitated, trying to decide how much to give away. “Holmes plays his cards very close to his chest, Lord Foxton, but as I see it, there is no question as to whether Herbert Grange committed suicide. The case is more to do with motive, and whether someone else was asserting an undue influence upon him.”