Sherlock Holmes Page 9

  The driveway was bordered by an avenue of stately oak trees, and through their boughs I caught stuttering glimpses of an enormous lake to our left, its surface sparkling in the fading light. A rowing boat appeared like a tiny speck on the horizon, drifting on the glassy surface.

  The whole place felt serene and timeless, as if it had remained this way, untouched, for centuries. It was a far cry from the drab streets of the city.

  We pulled up in a large courtyard at the front of the building, and clambered down from the carriage. Three motorcars were parked in the shadow of the house – all of them sleek and black and near invisible in the dusk. These, I presumed, were the conveyances of the other guests. I hoped one of them might be Newbury himself. Time in his company always seemed to lift my mood.

  Holmes paid our driver, and as the carriage trundled away, back toward the city, I stood for a moment and regarded the property that would play host to our investigations that evening.

  It was most impressive: a manor in the Late Baroque style, likely dating from the beginning of the eighteenth century. The portico was reached by a set of stone steps and flanked by three columns on either side. Serried ranks of sash windows punctuated the tall, broad front of the building, and electric lights blazed within, welcoming and warm. The front door stood open, and the strains of a distant gramophone could be heard from within.

  “Shall we?” said Holmes.

  “Indeed,” I said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve attended anything quite so formal. I hope I can remember how to keep out of trouble.”

  Holmes grinned. “Now, Watson,” he said, with mock derision. “Where would be the fun in that?”

  He mounted the steps to the portico and rapped loudly on the door. It was opened by an elderly man, who had a shock of white hair, thinning but still full despite his advancing years, and whose dress marked him out as the butler. He had a kindly face, liver-spotted and creased from years of smiling. I surmised he must have been in his late seventies or early eighties.

  “Good evening to you both, gentlemen,” said the butler, a little out of breath. “My name is Brown. May I ask – are you expected this evening?”

  “I believe so,” I answered. “My name is Dr. John Watson, and this is my associate, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” I decided for once that Holmes could be my associate for the evening. “I understand a friend of ours, Sir Maurice Newbury, made arrangements for us to meet with Lord Foxton.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Brown. “You are, indeed, expected. I’ve been asked to show you through as soon as you arrive. But first, allow me to take your coats.” He extended his hand, which trembled slightly with a mild palsy. I slipped off my overcoat and handed it to him. Holmes did the same.

  While the old man fussed with our outerwear, shaking out imaginary creases, I took stock of our surroundings. Inside, the house was as magnificent as I’d imagined, although tastefully presented, and not at all ostentatious. Nevertheless, one couldn’t help but feel the presence of old money permeating the place – the portraits that hung on the walls in the hallway were just that little bit too faded to be recent fakes or reproductions, and much of the décor looked tarnished and original, as if it had been purchased when the house was first built and had been used by the family ever since.

  Alarmingly, a large, stuffed polar bear, rearing up on its hind legs, stood at the bottom of the stairs, as if guarding against unwelcome guests. Both Holmes and I regarded it warily. The butler saw our expressions and smiled.

  “Ah, that’s Bertie. He’s been a guest at the house for some years. Shot by the previous Lord Foxton on an expedition to the Arctic.”

  “Fascinating,” said Holmes. To my surprise, he sounded genuinely interested.

  Brown nodded. “If you’re ready, then, gentlemen, I’ll take you through.”

  “Please do,” I said, grinning at Holmes.

  Ponderously, Brown led us across the hallway, which narrowed on the right as it ran alongside the staircase. A passage led to a suite of adjoining rooms, from which we could hear the undulating chatter of male voices, accompanied by the clinking of glasses.

  “The other guests have already arrived,” said Brown. “You’ll find them through there. I’m sure Sir Maurice will be anxious to introduce you.” So, Newbury was here. The night was certainly looking up. “Please do call if you find yourselves in need of anything.”

  We thanked Brown and made our way into the drawing room, where a number of Foxton’s guests were gathered in a small cluster before the fireplace. Others lounged about on the sofas, deep in discussion, or stood by the window, sipping at drinks and making idle chitchat. I counted approximately ten other guests. Some of their faces seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite place any of them. Politicians, I imagined, whose likenesses I had seen in the newspapers.

  “Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes!” I turned to see Newbury coming towards us, his hand extended in greeting, a warm smile upon his face. “I see you received my note. It’s most excellent to see you.”

  “Likewise,” I said. I shook Newbury’s hand. He was looking well, if perhaps a little merry with the pre-dinner drinks.

  “Over here,” he said, waving enthusiastically for us to join his little group by the window. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  We followed him over to where he’d evidently been conducting a conversation before we came in. There were two other men, who both greeted us warmly. One was a portly chap wearing a black formal suit and a dicky bow, with a neat side parting and a bushy black beard. He introduced himself as Percy Cranston, a solicitor.

  The other was a short, thin fellow in his late sixties, clean-shaven, with greying hair and a dappling of liver spots around his left temple. He had a hawk-like nose, a deeply lined forehead, and sharp, interested eyes. In contrast to Cranston he was wearing a tweed suit with a relaxed, open collar. He took my hand and shook it graciously.

  “This is Professor Archibald Angelchrist,” said Newbury. “A dear old friend. We’ve been through rather a lot together, over the years. Quite a raft of adventures.”

  “It’s a delight to meet you, Dr. Watson,” said Angelchrist. His voice was gentle, his words exceptionally well enunciated. “I’ve enjoyed many of your written accounts of your investigations,” he said. “It’s quite a remarkable achievement, to have documented so many interesting cases.”

  I laughed. “And those are just the ones Holmes has allowed me to publish,” I said. “I have boxes overflowing with more. Perhaps one day they’ll see the light of day.”

  “Hmmm,” murmured Holmes, with a smile. He reached around me to grasp Angelchrist by the hand. “A pleasure,” he said. “I understand we have you to thank for seeing to this evening’s arrangements?”

  “Hardly a trial,” said Angelchrist. “Foxton’s rather an admirer. In fact, I barely had to mention your name before there was talk of having you both over.”

  “Well, all the same, we’re indebted to you,” I said.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” said Angelchrist. “In truth, I’ve been anxious to meet you, Mr. Holmes. Your brother has told me a great deal about you.”

  “You know Mycroft?” said Holmes, with a note of genuine surprise.

  “For many years,” replied Angelchrist. “He’s been a good friend to me, and I still see him regularly.”

  I, myself, had had only limited contact with Mycroft Holmes over the preceding decades, but the thought of him being a good friend to anyone seemed quite remarkable. He was an outwardly indolent fellow, who nevertheless had an intellect at least on a par with his brother’s, yet chose to apply it in a spectacularly different way, involving himself in the governance of the country at the very highest level.

  “Now, now, gentlemen,” said Cranston, pushing forward and causing Angelchrist to step to one side to avoid his considerable bulk. “First things first. You both look as if you could do with a drink.” He waved his hand and I looked round to see a footman making a beeline for us, carrying a tray of
drinks. Cranston handed Newbury his own glass and snatched two champagne flutes off the tray, passing them to Holmes and me. He dismissed the footman with a cursory “Thank you.” He grabbed his glass back from Newbury and clinked it against mine in a rather informal salutation, before draining it.

  Newbury caught my eye and offered an apologetic shrug, and I chuckled, realising now why he might have seemed a little tipsy when we’d first arrived. I decided to sip at the drink in an effort to eke it out – the last thing I wanted was to find myself too inebriated to comprehend anything that might constitute a clue in our ongoing investigation.

  “So… do you visit Ravensthorpe often, Mr. Cranston?” I ventured, unsure what else to say to this giant of a man.

  “Percy,” said Cranston. “Please, call me Percy.” He glanced around, then placed his empty glass surreptitiously on the windowsill. “And no, this is my first time here.”

  Angelchrist offered me a look that seemed to suggest it might well be Cranston’s last, too.

  Cranston turned to Holmes, who had been watching the man’s buffoonery with a sphinx-like gaze.

  “So you’re the famous sleuth, sir?” He chuckled at Holmes’s silent inclination of the head. “Do much sleuthing these days?”

  Holmes raised an eyebrow. “I have been retired for many years, Mr Cranston,” he replied. “Although one never truly rids oneself of certain habits.”

  “What, peering through magnifying glasses and haring after criminals?” Cranston guffawed. “I’d have thought you and Dr. Watson here were a little long in the tooth for such business.”

  Holmes smiled thinly. “While it is true that I do not engage in the more vigorous pursuits of my younger days, I was in fact referring to the habits of observation.” He steepled his long fingers under his aquiline nose. “Take your suit jacket for instance.”

  Cranston looked down at the black affair, as did we all.

  “From this item of apparel alone I can deduce that you have are left-handed, have put on seven pounds, four ounces within the last eleven months, and have acquired a new valet.”

  Cranston looked rather taken aback, while out of the corner of my eye I could see Newbury and Angelchrist exchanging conspiratorial smiles. Holmes himself had taken on an expression of perfect innocence that didn’t fool me for a moment. No matter how old he got, my friend would never grow out of the habit of showing off. In many ways, it defined him.

  “How could you possibly know all that?” Cranston asked. He extended his arms, turning them over and examining them, as if expecting the jacket fabric to yield its secrets.

  “Oh, quite straightforward, I assure you,” said Holmes. He turned to Newbury. “Sir Maurice, would you care to clarify how I know Mr. Cranston is left-handed?”

  Newbury cocked his head. “The cufflink, I believe.”

  “Indeed.” Holmes smiled. “Mr. Cranston, you are wearing plain sterling-silver cufflinks, manufactured, I believe, within the last five years, given the modern style. The right one is still in fine condition, yet the left has several small scratches across its face, such as would be made by repeated movement across the surface of a desk while writing, not to mention other small knocks that befall one’s dominant hand.” Cranston examined the item in question, and I saw that it did indeed show signs of wear, abrasions that were missing from the right cufflink.

  “What about the other things you mentioned?” Cranston had lost some of his earlier bravado and was looking quite put out. “And I think you’ll find I’ve gained no more than three pounds.”

  Holmes shook his head. “Seven pounds, four ounces. I saw the tailors’ name and address sewed into the lining when you handed us our champagne. The tailors in question, Messrs Brentley and Shunt, have only been at their new South Molton Street address for eleven months. Therefore the jacket is no more than a year old. Yet it is tight under the arms and hangs an inch wider at the stomach than it should. Brentley and Shunt are exemplary craftsmen, therefore we must assume that you no longer fit the suit, rather than imagine that they fitted it incorrectly.”

  Cranston unconsciously held his hands guardedly over his pronounced stomach. “What about Fenwick? I admit, I’ve only had him for two weeks. But how did you know?”

  Holmes smiled again, clearly enjoying himself. He leaned forward and indicated an area of cloth below Cranston’s right earlobe. “Observe, gentlemen, the slight indented line in the fabric at Mr. Cranston’s shoulder. Its shine denotes that this was the previous site of the shoulder crease, made by a valet repeatedly pressing the suit in an identical fashion. Yet the fresh crease tonight is a quarter-inch below its older fellow. Clearly this suit has been pressed by a man to whom it was previously unfamiliar, or else he would have automatically pressed the crease in the same manner as he had so many times before. A new valet. That, or your man has taken to drink.”

  Cranston looked momentarily confused, then laughed uproariously. “Well you’ve clearly not lost your touch, Mr. Holmes!” he exclaimed. Holmes took the compliment with good grace, and I felt almost young again. It was good to see my friend at work.

  “Now, Sir Maurice,” said Cranston, putting his arm around Newbury’s shoulder. “I’ve been wanting to ask you about the British Museum, and a particular monograph you wrote regarding the ritualistic practices of the Ancient Britons.”

  I saw Newbury force a smile, and took the opportunity to extract myself from the conversation. I sipped at my drink, angling myself out of Cranston’s line of sight, before turning my attention to Angelchrist.

  I knew very little of this genial man, other than what Newbury had told me – that he was a former agent of the British Secret Service Bureau, and had been instrumental in forging the organisation during the early days of the century. As Newbury had already intimated, the two of them had been involved in a number of adventures together, along with Sir Charles Bainbridge, the former Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard and agent to the Crown, and a man for whom I had the utmost respect.

  “I understand from Sir Maurice that you’re close friends with Sir Charles Bainbridge?” I said.

  “Quite so,” said Angelchrist. “Charles is a very dear friend.”

  “Is he well?” I enquired. “Holmes and I had the pleasure of working with him on a number of cases, many years ago now, but since his retirement I’ve heard very little of how he’s faring.”

  “I’ll pass on your regards,” said Angelchrist. “He’ll be delighted, I’m sure. He’s quite well – although I fear the word ‘retirement’ is perhaps a little strong. He’s currently scouring the Norfolk Broads in search of a feral child who’s said to be attacking the farmers and their livestock. It’s an odd business. Word is, a witch raised the child in the woods, and somehow cursed the boy, altering him through some ghastly ritual, so that he’s now a strange amalgam of man and beast.” He waved his hand dismissively. “If you believe that sort of thing. No doubt Bainbridge and his young protégé are having a whale of a time.”

  I laughed, finding myself beginning to relax. It was good to hear that Bainbridge was keeping active, even if his present investigation sounded somewhat bizarre.

  “So, Mr. Holmes, I understand from Newbury that you have an interest in Seaton’s spectrograph machine?” said Angelchrist. “Although your reputation would suggest that you are not, yourself, a dabbler in arcane matters. Unless your time in Sussex has served to change your mind, of course?”

  “Indeed not,” said Holmes. “I fear I do not put great stock in those things that cannot be properly observed. Faith, to me, is a form of blind weakness, and although I am aware of the comfort it can offer others of a more… spiritual persuasion, I put my confidence in empirical evidence and logic.”

  Angelchrist grinned. “Then what, if I may be so bold, is your interest in Seaton’s work?”

  “It’s related to a case we’re investigating,” I said. “The apparent suicide of Herbert Grange. You might have read about it in the papers?”

  “Read about it?” said
Angelchrist. “You haven’t been able to move in London’s political circles without hearing all kinds of salacious gossip about the poor fellow.”

  “Did you know him?” asked Holmes.

  “A little,” confirmed Angelchrist. “I’ve seen him here a few times.”

  “Was he good friends with Lord Foxton?” said Holmes.

  “I don’t believe so. He seemed to me like one of those chaps who are always on the periphery. Invited along because of his position, but had very little to say. Still, I understand he was a great proponent of change and reformation, and I’m all for that,” replied Angelchrist. He sipped at his drink. “Perhaps that’s why Foxton took to him. What’s that got to do with Seaton, though?”

  “Perhaps nothing,” said Holmes. “We found some of Mr. Underwood’s photographs at Grange’s house, and consulted Sir Maurice as to their purpose. He suggested we come along and see the machine for ourselves.”

  “Ah,” said Angelchrist, with a sly wink. “I’d wager he’s looking for a little demonstration himself. I showed him my own photographs and his eyes veritably lit up.”

  “You’ve participated?” I said, surprised.

  “Oh, I think you’ll find most of the men in the room have given it a go in recent months. It’s a jolly good parlour game, that is all, although a word to the wise – don’t let Seaton hear you say that. To him, it’s a deadly serious business…” Angelchrist appeared momentarily distracted, peering over my shoulder at something or someone behind me. “Ah, Lord Foxton?” he called. “A moment of your time?”

  I turned to see a stately looking man of around fifty, who’d clearly been walking past and had come to a stop at the sound of Archibald’s voice. He was lithe for his age and dressed in an immaculate black suit. His dark hair was swept back from his forehead, with a light dusting of grey at the temples.

  “Hello, Archibald,” said Foxton. “Good to see you. Now, this must be Mr. Holmes.” To Holmes’s evident surprise, Foxton clasped him heartily on the shoulder. “How very good to meet you. I’ve long been an admirer of your methods. I hope you have no objection, but I’ve taken the liberty of placing you beside me at dinner. I’m keen to hear more about your work.”