Sherlock Holmes and the Lady in Black Page 3

It was a game Holmes loved to play with an unwitting participant and, knowing this, I decided not to fall for this old trick but to lie doggo, so to speak, and pretend total ignorance.

  So I said, trying to look bewildered. ‘I have no idea, Holmes. What was it?’

  ‘Oil!’ he replied triumphantly.

  I was genuinely taken aback by this response.

  ‘Oil?’

  ‘Yes, my dear fellow, and plenty of it too. As well as the keyhole and the door handle, the hinges had also been liberally oiled and recently, which means, of course …’

  He raised his eyebrows at me and this time the answer was so obvious that I was almost ashamed to reply.

  ‘Someone was trying to break into the church, a thief no doubt, hoping to find silver candlesticks or something of value. Some church silverware is old and therefore of great interest to a collector.’

  ‘Possibly, Watson, but why should he break into the crypt and not into the church itself? But you could be right about the candlesticks. However, I think in this particular case, there was another motive.’

  By this time, I was thoroughly roused by Holmes’ remarks. There was an air of suppressed excitement about him that stimulated my own curiosity almost to a fever pitch of expectation.

  ‘What motive?’ I demanded eagerly.

  ‘Hold your horses, Watson,’ he replied. ‘It is a complex story and one I think that should be told at leisure once we have seen what is in the crypt, which I suggest we examine later tonight after we have returned from our supper engagement at The Gables. For the time being, I propose we go back to the cottage and get ready for this evening. Mrs B will have gone by now so we shall have a clear run.’

  Mrs B, as Holmes referred to her, had indeed departed by the time we returned to the cottage, leaving everything shipshape in her wake: beds made, breakfast things washed up and put away, rooms tidy and dusted. Whatever her drawbacks as a gossip, she was evidently an excellent housekeeper, a quality which Holmes readily admitted.

  ‘You know, Watson,’ he confessed, giving me a wry sideways look, ‘I do appreciate her efficiency. In fact, I sometimes leave little thank-you notes or some small gift to make up for my negligent behaviour, although I do not think she feels offended about it anyway. She has come to the conclusion that I am eccentric and therefore anything I do is excusable. And what is more, I am a man and therefore any selfishness or inconsideration on my part is to be expected.’

  As he spoke, I realised how much he had changed since the Baker Street days. That old Holmes would not have been so aware of other people’s feelings, let alone apologise for them. It was a revelation that gave me great consolation and, later on, when I followed him around the garden on a tour of the beehives and listened to his enthusiastic account of the art of apiculture and the consequent delight of its delicious product, I felt even closer to Holmes. However, one small query still nagged away at the back of my mind: what on earth had he meant about the candlesticks in the crypt? It seemed to make no sense at all. Or was he merely suggesting that whoever had entered the crypt had come equipped with the means of lighting it? I could only suppose that later in the evening, when we investigated the place ourselves, he would explain this minor mystery.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I had mixed feelings about the invitation to the supper party at The Gables. Part of me was curious to meet Holmes’ new friend, Harold Stackhurst; on the other hand, I felt a little uncertain about Holmes’ relationship with him. Judging by the references Holmes had made now and again to Stackhurst in his letters to me, I gathered they met fairly frequently, for meals or walks or to go swimming together in the lagoons left behind in the bay when the tide went out. I was not exactly jealous of their friendship but I was aware that this new Holmes, the one I was getting used to, was a different person to the one I had known in London. He was much more relaxed and ready to socialise. The old Holmes had preferred his own company, living a solitary life in which I was on occasions his only contact with the outside world.

  At the same time, I wondered what Stackhurst would make of me. Would he regard me as an interloper, someone from Holmes’ past with whom he would rather not have to associate – although I realised this reaction was irrational. After all, the man had invited both of us to spend the evening with him, unless, of course, I was included out of mere politeness. Or perhaps curiosity, in the same way I was curious to meet him.

  The invitation was for half past seven and, having spruced ourselves up, we set off for The Gables in the car in deference to our newly polished boots; to my relief, I must confess. Although I walked regularly in London and reckoned myself to be in a good state of health, I have to admit that my calves were still aching from our earlier expedition, particularly the long climb up and down the steps to the beach.

  As soon as I drove up to The Gables and saw it was a large, Victorian building in the Gothic style, solid and conspicuous, its gables standing out against the skyline, I was not sure I liked it much. It was a little too pompous and extravagant for my taste and, as I parked the car, I wondered if Harold Stackhurst would share its characteristics.

  Thank goodness, he did not. He was a pleasant, frank-featured man, a bachelor in his forties, as Holmes had once described him, with a friendly smile as he greeted us at the door and welcomed us into the house.

  As I had suspected, the Gothic style was a little too over-emphasised. The entrance hall and the staircase that led off it were panelled in dark oak that gave it a gloomy air although I was pleased to see no suits of armour, only a display of armorial shields that with their gold coronets were almost festive and cheered up the place.

  A huge stained-glass window depicting more coronets and fabulous creatures, such as unicorns and griffins, illuminated the landing halfway up the stairs.

  We were conducted into what I assumed was Stackhurst’s private drawing room, a much more modest apartment furnished with sofas and chairs, where a decanter of sherry and glasses were waiting for us on a low table along with cigars and cigarettes should we want them.

  I felt I ought to make some complimentary remark about the house. After all, it was Stackhurst’s property and the place itself seemed to expect some expression of admiration. But to my relief, Stackhurst waved aside my remarks.

  ‘Personally, I think it’s hideous,’ he replied, ‘but it impresses my students and especially their parents who seem to think it’s the height of good taste and architecture magnificence, better than Eton as one father expressed it. So it has its uses.’

  ‘Who built it?’ Holmes asked.

  ‘A very foolish man called Henry Lovell, a self-made millionaire who wanted to impress his friends and colleagues. Unfortunately, he fell into the hands of a so-called architect who specialised in designing public houses. Anyway, to cut a long story short, he persuaded Lovell to build the house at an enormous cost on the top of the cliff, assuring him it would be an excellent investment. “Think of it!” he urged. “Sea views! Beautiful scenery! Beach parties!”

  ‘Foolishly, he failed to mention the winter gales, the rocky coast that made sailing too dangerous and the fact that there was no easy access to the beach. So, after a season or two, Lovell’s friends, or so he assumed them to be, made excuses not to join him on his clifftop mansion and having found himself alone among the stained-glass and the heraldic shields, he decided to sell. But no one seemed to share his taste for medieval fripperies and the price was gradually reduced until it reached a figure low enough for me to afford. So I bought the place and set up my establishment. I call it an academy in the brochures but, strictly speaking, its a crammer for students who need extra tuition for Civil Service examinations or applications for the army or navy.’

  ‘And it has been successful?’ Holmes suggested.

  ‘Oh indeed it has!’ Stackhurst responded warmly. ‘My students are keen to pass their exams and I have been very lucky in building up an excellent teaching staff.’

  At this point, he was interrupted by a peal o
n the front doorbell and he rose to his feet.

  ‘Ah, that must be my other guests,’ he said. ‘If you will excuse me for a moment …’

  He left the room, returning shortly with the new arrivals: a man in his thirties, accompanied by a young woman whom I recognised immediately from the photograph of her that had been pinned up in Holmes’ darkroom. She lived up to the image I had seen there: the same clear-cut, delicate features, the same natural grace in the poise of her head and the same colouring that I had guessed from the black-and-white print. As I had imagined, her hair was a rich dark brown with gold and russet tints, such as you would find in autumnal foliage, while her eyes were like opals, mostly dark blue with flecks of green and gold in the pupils.

  I was completely captivated by her beauty and by the aura of modesty and innocence about her, yet she seemed unaware of the effect she had on any man capable of normal reactions.

  Her companion, I realised even before he was introduced to me, was Ian Murdoch, the mathematics tutor at The Gables. Holmes had mentioned him in one of his letters, not in a very complimentary manner, in which he had referred to the Lion’s Mane inquiry and how Ian Murdoch had, for a time, been suspected of murdering Fitzroy McPherson, the science master at The Gables, until Holmes was able to prove his innocence.

  Meeting him face-to-face, I could understand why he had aroused suspicion. He was a dark, thin, taciturn man, very tense, his eyes watchful and wary. He gave off an aura of powerful energy seething just below the surface, ready to boil over at the least provocation.

  Also obvious were his feelings towards Maud Bellamy. Whenever he looked at her, his whole features softened and took on an expression of longing.

  Even Holmes, despite his scorn of what he called the ‘softer emotions’, seemed touched by her although his attitude seemed one of affection. It was more the look an uncle might bestow on a favourite niece, not that of a lover.

  As for Harold Stackhurst, I could not gauge his reaction to her. Having made the introductions, he had turned away to pour sherry for these new guests and I could not see his face apart from his profile and that expressed no more than the general cordiality of a good-natured host.

  Despite these undercurrents of tension, it was an enjoyable evening. Stackhurst was an excellent host and, once we had been introduced, and the sherry, a good dry vintage, consumed, he conducted us into an adjoining dining room. A lavish supper had been laid out on a long table overlooking the rear garden of the house and a distant view of the Downs, shrouded now by the gathering twilight and the atmosphere of the party became more convivial. We helped ourselves informally to the various dishes of cold meats and cheeses, served with salads, and to the choice wines. It was at this point that Holmes introduced the subject of Fulworth Hall and its occupants, a topic that evidently intrigued others in the group. He had not so far referred to it in my presence but from his carefully casual tone I guessed it was of some importance to him.

  ‘By the way,’ he remarked, ‘from time to time I have noticed a lady in widow’s weeds walking along the beach. I think she lives in Fulworth Hall. Does anyone know who she might be?’

  It was Ian Murdoch who answered him.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t help you,’ he said, ‘but I gather there’s something of a mystery about the residents of Fulworth Hall.’ Turning to Maud Bellamy, he added, ‘You live locally, Maud. You’re probably better informed than the rest of us. Do you know who she is?’

  Maud Bellamy shook her head.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t. I’ve heard people mention her but no one seems to know anything about her. Surely your housekeeper, Mrs Bagwell, will be able to help you, Mr Holmes? She was born in Fulworth and evidently knows everything about the place that is worth knowing. I advise you to ask her.’

  Holmes darted a quick sideways glance at me, eyebrows raised and a small wry smile on his lips. It was gone in an instant and his face reassumed a pleasant, neutral expression.

  ‘Of course!’ he remarked, without a trace of irony in his voice. ‘What a splendid idea!’

  ‘She could probably tell you quite a lot about the smugglers as well,’ Maud Bellamy continued.

  ‘Smugglers!’ Holmes repeated, his voice and manner changing to one of genuine eagerness.

  Ian Murdoch took up the subject.

  ‘Haven’t you heard of them?’ he asked. ‘This stretch of coast used to be notorious for them. France is quite close and the caves in the cliffs were very useful for hiding contraband, brandy mostly, as well as tobacco and wine. The public house, the Fisherman’s Arms, was also in on the game. They used to hide their goods in the cellar there, I’m told. Ask Reg Berry, the landlord. He’ll show you where the contraband was concealed, in case the Excise men came searching.’

  ‘Really?’ Holmes sounded eager to know more about the smugglers and I could understand his curiosity. The information seemed to link up with the crypt in St Botolph’s and the door that led into it; I wondered if Holmes had come to the same conclusion. I assumed he had.

  Evidently it was a topic that sparked the interest of other members of the group and conversation passed on to further discussion about smuggling: how boats had put into the bay at the dead of night to unload their cargoes and how the smugglers with the aid of some of the local men had toiled up the steep path to the top of the cliffs with kegs of brandy on their shoulders and packets of tobacco rolled up in oilskins.

  The conversation continued until eleven o’clock when Holmes rose to his feet, ready to take his leave, thanking Harold Stackhurst for the excellent supper and the fascinating company. He was keen, I thought, to set out on our own investigation of the church crypt, fired up no doubt by the talk of smugglers that had evidently caught his attention.

  Turning to Maud Bellamy, he added, ‘I understand you live in the village. Dr Watson has brought me here by car. May we offer to drive you home?’

  Before she had the opportunity to reply, Ian Murdoch had stepped forward, his face flushed with anger, revealing the other side of his nature that I had suspected on first meeting him. There followed a moment of uneasy silence before Murdoch regained his composure, although there was still a hard edge to his voice when he replied.

  ‘There is no need, Mr Holmes. I, too, have a car and I have already made arrangements to drive Miss Bellamy home.’

  It was Maud Bellamy who smoothed over the awkwardness rather to my surprise; up to that point I had formed the impression that she was of an unassuming nature who would prefer to leave such decisions to the men rather than express her own preferences. Instead, in a clear, steady voice she addressed Holmes directly.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Holmes, and you too, Dr Watson. It was most kind of you to make the offer that I would have been very pleased to accept. However, as Mr Murdoch has explained, he has already arranged to take me home.’

  Then, glancing round at the four of us, at least three of whom were, I believe, more than a little attracted to her, she gave us all a charming smile before shaking hands all round.

  Holmes and I left soon afterwards, after allowing enough time for Murdoch to drive away. His car had gone, I noticed, as Harold Stackhurst showed us out of the front door.

  ‘A very pleasant evening,’ I remarked as I turned out of the drive and headed back towards Church Lane.

  ‘I am very pleased you enjoyed it,’ Holmes said. ‘Stackhurst is an excellent host. Pity though, about Ian Murdoch. I thought he rather spoilt the last few minutes.’

  It was said in a light-hearted manner but, having seen Murdoch’s obvious possessive infatuation for Maud Bellamy, I was curious to know more about the man.

  ‘I would imagine he has quite a temper when roused,’ I remarked, adding as I remembered a detail from one of Holmes’ letters, ‘Wasn’t he suspected of the murder of that other tutor at The Gables?’

  ‘Fitzroy McPherson, you mean? Yes, Murdoch was thought to have killed him. His temper nearly lost him his post at The Gables as well. A little Airedale puppy belongi
ng to McPherson annoyed him for some reason and he picked it up and threw it through a plate-glass window.’

  ‘Oh, Holmes, how dreadful!’ I exclaimed, deeply shocked by the information.

  ‘I know. It was quite inexcusable. Harold Stackhurst was close to sacking him. It was only the fact that he was a good mathematics tutor that saved him. Incidentally, the dog survived but died later of grief, as we thought at the time, at the very same place that McPherson lost his life. But it was another victim of the Cyanea capillata, the jellyfish with the deadly sting.’

  ‘There must have been a very strained relationship between the two men.’

  ‘Apparently not,’ Holmes corrected me. ‘That particular incident of the dog blew over and they became quite close friends afterwards. In fact, Murdoch was very distressed by McPherson’s death. No, it was quite a different situation that seemed to give Murdoch a motive for murder. You saw an example this evening.’

  ‘You are speaking of Maud Bellamy?’ I inquired.

  We had reached Holmes’ cottage and, having parked the car in the open space in front of the fruit trees and the row of beehives, I switched off the engine.

  There was a silence before my old friend replied.

  ‘Yes, you are right, Watson. Fitzroy McPherson and Maud Bellamy were secretly engaged to be married. After his death, we found a note from her in his pocket agreeing to meet him on the beach that very same evening. At the time, it was suspected that Ian Murdoch was also attracted to her. So it gave him a motive, as well as an opportunity to kill his rival, knowing when he would be on the beach.’

  ‘But he wasn’t arrested,’ I pointed out.

  ‘No, Maud Bellamy was adamant that Murdoch gave up all interest in her once he knew about the relationship between her and McPherson. She believed him as she knew the two men had become close friends.’

  ‘And now?’ I asked. ‘What is their relationship since McPherson’s death?’

  I heard Holmes let out a deep breath but it was too dark to see his expression.