Sherlock Holmes and the Lady in Black Page 2

  Two other rooms overlooked the back garden and the grassy incline of the Downs curving up towards the horizon with a distant view of the church. One was apparently his housekeeper’s room, which was locked. From his letters to me I understood her name was Mrs Bagwell and that, although she was a good cook, she was too garrulous for his liking and that he had arranged for her to move in with her sister in the village during my stay, coming in on a daily basis.

  The last room was also familiar. Here were the bottles and jars of chemicals, the test tubes and Petri dishes, the microscope and magnifying glass that had littered his scarred workbench in Baker Street – except that these articles were now neatly arranged and labelled. Other equipment stood about which suggested his new hobby of photography, which he had mentioned in one of his letters and that he apparently took very seriously. A black curtain at the window could be drawn to shut out the light when he was developing his photographs, samples of which were pinned to a cork display board on the wall or were pegged onto a cord that was stretched across the room like a washing line.

  Holmes gave me only a few moments to look inside this room and I guessed from his haste that it was his holy of holies in which one was not supposed to linger. It was an example of his old tendency to secretiveness, however close his friendship might be to the observer.

  Despite the haste with which he closed the door, I had the chance to look briefly about me and noticed that the developed pictures hanging up to dry were mostly views of the countryside and the sea, keenly observed and very professional looking. Among them were a few photographs of people, clearly not Holmes’ first choice of subject matter apart from one individual whose likeness stood out from among the others. It was of a young woman in her early twenties, I surmised, and whose hair, despite the lack of colour in the black and white prints, I could envisage from the subtle tones of the photographs, as being a rich dark brown with auburn tints. As for her features, they were delicately moulded, particularly the mouth and the forehead. Her eyes were the same dark tone as her hair and looked out of the likeness with a gentle candour. The whole face had a clear, natural beauty and, although it may seem strange, I felt I could read into the photograph Holmes’ tenderness towards the sitter, whoever she might be.

  I later found out that her name was Maud Bellamy.

  In all my years of friendship with Holmes, I have known him to be attracted to only one woman, ‘the woman’, as I once described her. She was, of course, Irene Adler, the American opera singer who became involved romantically with the King of Bohemia. She was beautiful, intelligent and talented but there was a ruthless side to her character and although I thought she was the type of woman he might have married, any such romantic daydreaming on my part was soon shattered when she chose Godfrey Norton, a London lawyer, as her husband. Holmes, who was inadvertently called on to act as a witness at their wedding, kept the sovereign he was paid for his services and wore it on his watch chain as a memento, the only sentimental action I had known him make. Afterwards, he admitted that he had been outwitted by only one woman, presumably her.

  In contrast, his relationship with Maud Bellamy seemed to be paternal.

  Later, he stated that she would always remain in his memory as the most remarkable woman he had ever met and spoke admiringly of her perfect clear-cut features and the soft freshness of her delicate colouring.

  At the time of my visit to Sussex I had not met her and, apart from the photograph, was unaware of her existence, so I put her to the back of my mind along with the feeling that there was more to Holmes’ invitation than first appeared.

  I slept well that night, tired from the long drive to Sussex and lulled by the sound of the sea, so different to the noise of London, a constant dull roar like that of some huge, restless creature prowling the streets of the city.

  By the time I awoke Holmes was already up and, in the absence of his housekeeper, was preparing what he called a bachelor’s breakfast consisting of coffee, toast and honey, of course, that he urged me to finish quickly so that we could escape from the house before the arrival of Mrs Bagwell.

  ‘She will be here at any moment,’ he explained, ‘and if we don’t leave soon, we shall be trapped here for half the morning. She knows you are coming and is eager to meet you. She has a stiffness in her neck, you see, and as I foolishly told her that you are a doctor, she is hoping for a free consultation. She means well,’ he added as a more kindly afterthought.

  ‘But …’ I added with a smile.

  ‘Exactly, Watson,’ he agreed. ‘Is there not a saying about the road to hell being paved with good intentions? Anyway, I suggest we take the rest of the day off while I show you the delights of Fulworth, the beach, for instance, and the cliffs. We could lunch at the Fisherman’s Arms, the local inn. And, on the subject of food, that reminds me: Harold Stackhurst has invited us this evening for a meal at The Gables. I think you will like him, I find him very good company. So what do you say to my plan? A walk along the cliffs? A visit to St Botolph’s? As my guest, you must choose.’

  ‘I think a walk on the cliffs,’ I replied. ‘Like Mrs Bagwell, I am a little stiff from the drive from London, and the exercise will do me good.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Holmes exclaimed, giving me a sideways glance that was full of good humour and appreciation and I felt for the first time since my arrival that the gap between us was beginning to close.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The clifftop walk was most invigorating. The air was fresh and scented with the clean odour of salt and a more delicate aroma: wild thyme, I learnt later from Holmes. It was on this herb that the bees were nourished, the fragrance of which sweetened their honey and gave it its particular flavour.

  After London with its streets and houses, offering little more to the eye than walls and chimneys, the view was magnificent, so wide and open that for the first few minutes of experiencing that huge sky and the broad, green sweep of the Downs, I felt overwhelmed by the sheer vastness of it all.

  I began, too, with Holmes’ help to pick out certain details of the landscape, for example, the inn he had mentioned, tucked away in the folds of the hills; the ancient stone walls of St Botolph’s church; and, in the further distance, a more modern-looking building of red-brick with gabled roofs, aptly called The Gables, the previously mentioned residence of Harold Stackhurst, the proprietor of the private coaching establishment who had invited us to supper that evening.

  Having admired the view, Holmes suggested we went down to the beach to take a closer look at the sea. It was a steep descent, made easier by a set of wooden steps and a handrail, constructed, I gathered from Holmes, after the Lion’s Mane tragedy when the only means of reaching the cove was by a path so precipitous and slippery that it was dangerous to use. Some of the local inhabitants, including The Gables’ staff who used the rock pools for swimming, Holmes himself and the proprietor of the Fisherman’s Arms had clubbed together to pay for the steps and rail to be installed.

  There was, I noticed, another set of steps on the far side of the bay and when I remarked on this, wondering why a second means of access was needed, Holmes explained it was private property, not available to the general public.

  ‘That is rather ungenerous,’ I remarked. ‘Are they the owners of the house over there?’

  I indicated a building at the top of the second set of steps, partly hidden by trees and bushes that grew in the clifftop garden. Because of the foliage, it was difficult to make out much detail of the house except it seemed to be of the Regency period – for I glimpsed a pillared porch through the leaves and an upper tier of elegant windows, typical of that style of architecture.

  As I spoke, I was aware of a subtle change in the atmosphere, as if a curtain had come down between us.

  ‘Oh that!’ Holmes replied in an offhand tone. ‘That is Fulworth Hall. Now what do you think of the cove, Watson? It was worthwhile coming here, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Indeed I do!’ I responded, for it was a magnificent settin
g.

  The cove itself was a large semicircular bay surrounded on the landward side by steep rocky cliffs, the sea enclosing it on the far side. The beach immediately below the cliffs was composed of large pebbles like cobblestones, their surfaces buffed and rounded by the action of the waves over aeons of time. Further down, nearer the sea’s edge, these stones were replaced by a wide swathe of sand with rocks strewn here and there, jutting out from the softer surface to form rough-sided pools, the largest of which contained seawater left behind by the receding tide. I remembered Holmes referring to the lagoons, as he called them, in one of his letters. It was in these that he usually bathed and I assumed the students and staff from The Gables made use of them for the same purpose.

  There were larger rocks scattered about, one of which caught my attention. It had a flat surface with a back to it, like a stony armchair facing the sea. To test its comfort, I sat down on it looking out over the glittering, shifting water of the bay where the tide was receding and the waves came gently lapping against the shore. It was a soothing sound and I could have sat there for hours gazing out towards the distant horizon where the sea and sky mingled together, in one shimmering band of light.

  It was Holmes who jolted me out of my reverie.

  ‘Have you seen enough, my dear fellow?’ he asked, ‘only I thought it was time for lunch and after that I suggest we have a look round the church.’

  The clean air had sharpened my appetite and I had no hesitation in agreeing with the first part of his suggestion. As for the church – well, I supposed grudgingly it was worth a visit since we were close to it.

  The lunch at the Fisherman’s Arms was certainly worth the climb up the steps and the walk along the cliff road that led to it. On the way we passed a tall iron gate behind which was a gravelled drive leading to Fulworth Hall, I supposed. The gate was padlocked and the house was shrouded in leaves, so that I saw no more of it than I had from the bay. Because of its concealed position, there was an air of mystery about the place that aroused my curiosity, as if it were hiding some secret. But remembering Holmes’ dismissive attitude when I had spoken of it earlier, I said nothing to him about my reaction.

  In complete contrast, the Fisherman’s Arms had a lively, open atmosphere, full of noise and movement. Several customers were in the bar and I noticed that when we entered their conversations broke off and we were regarded with a slightly suspicious interest, as if we were intruders on their world, like foreigners from an unknown country.

  However, it soon passed. The landlord evidently knew Holmes for he bustled forward to greet us and to conduct us to a table by the window.

  ‘The usual, Mr Holmes?’ he asked, and nodded to me, inviting me into his little circle.

  Moments later the other customers resumed their conversations, also signalling we were accepted into their clan.

  The lunch was excellent, consisting of cheese, home-made bread and pickles, and a large glass of local-brewed ale. Half an hour later, I sat back, replete with food and beer, sunshine and sea air.

  ‘Ready for St Botolph’s?’ Holmes inquired and I agreed without hesitation for he seemed eager to show me round the features of his new environment, although I must admit I am no great admirer of country churches. They may look very handsome from the outside but their interiors strike me as being cold and damp, smelling of moist stone and mouldy plaster. They tend to put me in a melancholy mood and this one, St Botolph’s, had that same effect on me when, having walked down the gravelled path that led to the porch, Holmes opened the door, releasing the first draught of moist, cold air from the interior of the building. Holmes seemed indifferent to it and went striding briskly ahead, leaving me to follow behind.

  It was a large, bare building that seemed to exude an aura of death: from the memorial plaques fixed to the walls to the usual image of the crucifixion in the east window. It also seemed vast for its setting, designed to hold a large congregation although my impression of the area was of only a few scattered cottages here and there along the clifftops. Even the Fisherman’s Arms was apparently unable to attract more than half a dozen customers while Fulworth Hall seemed empty of inhabitants.

  It also seemed very old and from the little I knew about churches, dinned into me by my history teacher at school who had a penchant for ecclesiastical architecture, parts of it were probably Saxon. The rounded arches of the doorways and the plain, sturdy pillars suggested as much.

  I pointed this out to Holmes who agreed with me. Evidently there were little booklets on sale by the door that contained a short history of the place. As for the size of the building, Holmes had an explanation for that too. In the past, Fulworth had been a thriving fishing community but over time the bay had silted up causing the fishing trade to decline and the population had shrunk with it to a point where the church could no longer support its own clergyman. The centre of the village had shifted to the next bay further along the coast where the conditions were better and it was the vicar from the new church of St Mary’s who came every other Sunday to take communion and matins. Funerals were still held at St Botolph’s and the very occasional wedding or baptism, many of the younger members of the population having moved to the newly established heart of the community. But even that had recently declined as a fishing centre, due to quite another drawback: the railway this time.

  ‘Railway?’ I asked, much surprised. ‘But I thought the railways brought trade.’

  ‘Not if they fail to come. Customers from the area had grown used to their fish being delivered within hours of it being caught. So when the railway line stopped short of Fulworth, possibly because it was too small to make the expense of extending it worthwhile, the fishing trade declined once again. A few of the more enterprising of the local inhabitants refused to be beaten and started up alternative businesses of their own: renting out bathing huts, for example, or taking visitors on little boating trips round the bay. Ask Maud Bellamy, if you’re interested. Her father, Tom Bellamy, made a small fortune out of the holiday trade.’

  As we stood talking, I became more and more aware of a draught round my ankles. That part of the chancel floor was composed of stone slabs covered by strips of coconut matting, leaving the edges exposed. It was from this area abutting the wall that the cold air was seeping and I shifted my feet trying to find a warmer place in which to stand.

  Holmes broke off his explanation of the diminution of the population to ask, ‘What on earth is the matter, Watson?’

  ‘There is a dreadful draught coming up from the floor.’ I replied. ‘My feet are like ice!’

  ‘Ah!’ Holmes said softly, putting into the simple two-letter exclamation a wealth of meaning: surprise at my response, combined, I thought, with relief as if it were a remark he was hoping to hear.

  ‘What do you suppose this draught signifies?’ he continued.

  ‘Signifies?’ I repeated, unsure what he meant.

  ‘What causes it, do you think?’

  ‘Well,’ I said uncertainly, ‘I suppose there must be a cellar of some sort under this part of the church.’

  ‘A crypt perhaps?’

  ‘It could be.’

  ‘And when did you notice the draught?’

  ‘Not long after I stepped onto this part of the floor.’ I replied, wondering where this strange catechism was leading.

  ‘Oh, well done, my dear fellow!’ Holmes exclaimed. ‘Not many people would have had the perspicacity to remark on it. And you are quite right. There is a vault under the church in exactly that position. In fact, it was partly for that reason why I wanted you to join me in Fulworth. There are some strange happenings going on here and it struck me that you would be the ideal companion to help me solve the mystery. You have that simple, down-to-earth attitude that is exactly what I need.’

  I could have been offended by the remark for it suggested that I lacked imagination, a criticism he had once made about Inspector Lestrade, the Scotland Yard police officer with whom Holmes had collaborated during several inv
estigations during our Baker Street days. It also suggested that he had invited me to Sussex not so much out of his friendship for me than for his own benefit. But no sooner had the thought crossed my mind than another arose to contradict it. He had needed my assistance and that was the greatest compliment he could pay me.

  ‘What happenings are you referring to, Holmes? Are they connected with this business of the draught?’

  ‘Come with me and I will show you exactly what I mean,’ he replied and, turning on his heel, he strode back to the door through which we had entered. Much bemused, I followed him out into the graveyard where he set out purposefully, walking rapidly along a gravel path that led round to the back of the church, past the tower, to the far side of the building.

  ‘Here we are,’ he announced, coming to a halt and pointing to the base of the wall.

  At first, I could not make out what he was indicating. The churchyard had been neglected and over the years grass and brambles had enveloped a stretch of earth that must have once been a small garden. A rose bush, half strangled by the overgrowth, pushed its head towards the light and the edge of the narrow strip of garden had been outlined with smooth, rounded stones probably taken from the beach.

  Holmes was saying, ‘There is another little garden directly opposite this one, just as overgrown and with a same edging of stones. When I first noticed it, I was intrigued, so I bent back the briars that were quite dense. In doing so, I uncovered three steps leading down to a low door set in the wall. It had one of those wrought-iron handles, shaped like a ring, such as you find on old buildings. Below it was a keyhole, also made of iron.

  ‘My curiosity aroused, I bent the briars to one side so that I had easier access to the steps and, going gingerly down them, I was able to examine more closely the door and its lock and handle. Guess what I found Watson?’