Sherlock Holmes and the Lady in Black Page 7

  ‘I think that is a very plausible theory,’ Holmes agreed although I noticed that, as he spoke, he passed a hand over his chin, a gesture that he often made when he was uncertain of the facts of a case. Inspector Bardle had failed to note this for he was hurrying on with his own account, eager to finish.

  ‘And there’s more to come, Mr Holmes. The little scamp, whoever he is, can’t have been that well-trained ’cos he left his dabs on the scullery window.’

  ‘Did he indeed!’ Holmes exclaimed, sounding quite positive this time. ‘What prints are they?’

  ‘A thumb and an index finger.’

  ‘You will let me have them?’

  ‘Of course, Mr Holmes. I’ll get Morrison to send copies of them to you.’

  ‘Splendid!’ Holmes exclaimed with genuine delight, a mood that lasted when, having taken leave of Inspector Bardle, we set off down the drive, this time by the more conventional route via the main gate, escorted by a uniformed constable who, under Bardle’s instructions, was to account for our unexpected appearance to the police on guard, should any explanation be called for.

  Holmes, still jubilant, went striding ahead in a manner that indicated he would prefer to postpone any discussion until later, for it was not until we reached The Wheatsheaf a little further down the road and had ensconced ourselves at the table he had booked for us earlier that morning that he referred to our snatched conversation on the back stairs of Melchett Manor.

  ‘You asked about fingerprints. What exactly do you want to know about them, my dear fellow?’

  ‘Well, you have already told me quite a lot, Holmes, how you found them an improvement on the Bertillon method of identification …’

  ‘Oh, that system,’ Holmes replied dismissively. ‘That is quite passé as the French might say, even though it was a Frenchman, Alphonse Bertillon, who devised it in the first place. Its disadvantage was you had first to catch your suspect before you could take all those measurements – his height, the size of his feet and his head, not to mention cataloguing the colour of his eyes and hair and then all that had to be classified and filed. It was excessively complicated. Compared to that, fingerprints are so much more straightforward.’

  ‘And so the fingerprints on the scullery window could be vital evidence?’

  ‘Exactly so, Watson.’

  ‘A child’s?’ I persisted, thinking of Inspector Bardle’s comment on the likelihood that whoever had entered the house had childlike proportions.

  But Holmes seemed unconvinced by this theory.

  ‘There are other interpretations,’ was all he said in reply.

  It was one of his deliberately obtuse responses that sometimes used to tease me or, on occasions, to draw me off the scent so that his own interpretation should appear to be even more impressive once the final solution had been established and his theory vindicated. I therefore decided to let the matter rest, although I could not help turning over in my mind possible answers to his remark. Other interpretations? What on earth was he referring to? A dwarf, perhaps? It seemed highly unlikely and yet I supposed it should not be entirely dismissed as a feasible explanation.

  He made no further reference to the subject over luncheon and our conversation turned, if I remember correctly, to Elizabethan drama and Shakespeare’s sonnets, in particular to the name of the Dark Lady about whom I knew nothing but with which Holmes seemed particularly fascinated, perhaps because of her likeness to our own Dark Lady.

  The meal over, we left The Wheatsheaf and returned to the car to drive back, I assumed to Fulworth although, on Holmes’ directions, I took a different road to the one we had followed to Lower Melchett. It was a less direct route and it lacked the picturesque features of our morning’s drive but Holmes insisted and I followed his instructions. After about half an hour, he said abruptly, ‘Stop here!’

  We had arrived at the outskirts of an unprepossessing village consisting of a row of brick cottages, one little shop and a tin chapel, the last of which seemed to be Holmes’ desired destination, much to my surprise. What could he possibly want there?

  But it was apparently not the chapel he was interested in after all; it was another building opposite and in my opinion, equally as unlikely. It was a garage, like the chapel, also constructed of corrugated iron but boasting one dirty window filled with a conglomeration of spare parts for motor cars: tyres, batteries, headlamps, number plates, exhaust pipes, all heaped together higgledy-piggledy.

  Without a word of explanation, Holmes disappeared inside the place to emerge about twenty minutes later with a bulky parcel, badly wrapped in brown paper, which he deposited in the back seat of the car, giving me a sideways grin as if to say: ‘Go on, Watson. Ask what is in it.’

  But I refused to make any response, not even a raised eyebrow. In return, he merely shrugged, accepting my non-compliance with good humour. He played the same little game later in Lewes where he made me halt again while he made a swift foray inside a gentleman’s outfitters, returning to the car with yet another parcel, more neatly wrapped this time, which he added to the other package on the back seat.

  Again, I made no reference to his actions and as before I received no response from him and we set off for Fulworth, exchanging general pleasantries about our excursion: the beauty of the countryside, the elegance of Melchett Manor and Holmes’ particular gratification in renewing his acquaintanceship with Inspector Bardle. However, I noticed nothing was said in reference to the theft of the silver or to the contents of the two parcels, which Holmes whisked away to his bedroom as soon as we arrived at the cottage.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The mystery of the two parcels was solved, at least partially, the following day when over breakfast, Holmes suddenly asked, ‘You are not very good at imitating accents, are you Watson?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Holmes,’ I replied, wondering where this conversation was leading.

  ‘Ah, I thought not,’ Holmes said. ‘In that case, I shall have to play the main part myself. I’ll use my American voice I think.’

  ‘Main part in what?’ I asked, much bemused.

  ‘In getting access to Fulworth Hall, of course. We shall have to achieve it somehow, if we’re to get the fingerprint proof I need in the Lady in Black case.’

  ‘So you think the theft of the silver from Melchett Manor is connected with that inquiry?’

  ‘All my instincts tell me that is so,’ was all he said, but in so positive a tone that I could not dispute it. ‘There are too many pieces of evidence that point in that direction.’

  ‘Are there? Such as what?’ I asked, not entirely convinced.

  ‘The shapes in the dust we found in the crypt, for one thing.’

  ‘But what significance can they possibly have?’

  ‘They suggested to me that certain objects had been left in there.’

  I still failed to follow his reasoning.

  ‘What sort of objects?’

  ‘Fairly heavy ones, for they were clearly impressed into the dust, with bases about five inches square. What objects might fit such dimensions? Oh come, Watson!’ he chided me as I failed to come up with an answer. ‘Think, my dear fellow!’

  ‘I have no idea,’ I admitted, totally at a loss.

  ‘Candlesticks?’ he suggested. ‘Heavy ones that would stand on a sideboard or dining room table. I must admit that at the time I also noticed spots of candle wax on the floor, which I did not mention. You know me, Watson. I have a tendency to be secretive at times just to tease you. However, I did show you that other piece of evidence, that little object I found on the steps leading down to the crypt. It was that which confirmed my suspicions.’

  ‘The little metal object that looked as if someone had trodden on it? What was it?’

  ‘This you mean?’ he asked, reaching into his pocket and showing it to me on the palm of his hand. But I was as bewildered by it as the first time Holmes had shown it to me.

  ‘It is a little silver spoon,’ Holmes continued, ‘of the type
you would find in a salt dish as part of a condiment set, again found on a dinner table.’

  ‘Oh, I see!’ I exclaimed. ‘So you think there’s a connection with the silverware that was stolen from Melchett Manor?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘And that the Lady in Black is also connected with it?’

  ‘Yes, again, although I’m still not quite certain where she fits in. That’s why I need to find out whose fingerprints are on the pantry window.’

  ‘But how do you propose doing that?’

  ‘I’ll show you,’ Holmes replied.

  Going over to the desk that stood in one of the fireplace alcoves, he took out a small cardboard box, which he opened. Inside were about a dozen visiting cards, which he had collected when we were still living in Baker Street, and which he had specially printed as useful proof of the various identities he assumed at times during his career as a private consulting detective. From the box, he carefully extracted a card, holding it by one corner as he laid it down on the table, saying sharply to me as he did so, ‘Don’t pick it up, Watson; you may ruin my whole plan.’

  It was an ordinary looking visiting card on which was printed: William K. Goldstein, Book Dealer, 901 Parkway Avenue, Boston, USA. Below this was added: Top Prices Guaranteed.

  ‘So what part is he supposed to play in your “plan”, Holmes?’ I asked.

  ‘With a little luck, he will introduce me to the occupant of Fulworth Hall, our Lady in Black, whose fingerprints Inspector Bardle will identify with those found in Melchett Manor.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I replied, feeling a little let down that Holmes had not confided all this to me at the beginning.

  Holmes, aware of my reaction, hastily made amends.

  ‘I confess I haven’t been completely frank with you, my dear fellow, for which I sincerely apologise. As I have said to you before, I need your assistance with certain problems. You help me to think them through. That is why I invited you to visit me, a situation of which I think you are aware. But that does not mean I underrate your company in any way. I value most highly your honesty and your loyalty. I could not wish for a better friend in the world.’

  I was so taken aback by Holmes’ remarks that I could not make any reply and even after I had cleared my throat, my voice sounded hoarse and unreal.

  ‘Thank you, Holmes,’ I mumbled, at which he laughed and, slapping me on the shoulder, said, ‘Come, let us get down to business – the Lady in Black mystery and its solution.

  ‘You see, my old friend, I had so few facts to go on. She was a woman, she wore black, so she was possibly a widow, she was in her mid-forties; she had a manservant who apparently took care of her; she probably lived in Fulworth Hall; the beach and the sea in Fulworth Cove evidently had some special significance to her. That was all.

  ‘I tried to find out more about her from other people in the village but there was not much they could tell me either. Nobody ever saw her, although they thought she had moved into Fulworth Hall about nine years ago. As for the manservant, he was almost as inconspicuous as his mistress although I managed to collect up a few details: he drove a van, he apparently did the shopping, but never in the village, usually in Lewes but where else no one knew for certain. No letters were delivered at the Hall, not even a newspaper and no one ever visited the house. The local people, even Mrs B, did not know their names or where they came from. I even asked the estate agent in Lewes who had handled the letting of the house but he couldn’t tell me much either. The man called there every Michaelmas day to pay for the lease in cash and that was all.’

  ‘Surely there were papers to do with the leasehold that someone must have signed?’ I asked, finding myself as curious as Holmes over the situation.

  He gave a little ironic laugh.

  ‘Yes, there were; signed by John Smith, of course, but nothing more.’

  ‘So what are you going to do, Holmes? I imagine Mr Smith has something to do with it?’

  ‘Good reasoning, my dear fellow. He must indeed. You and I will call at Fulworth Hall, you as my driver, myself as William K. Goldstein; an American bibliophile who has heard that a cache of books and printed papers regarding early Victorian novelists has been found at the Hall and that the owners are willing to sell. As a collector of such literary material, I am eager to buy. So I have come to England especially to arrange a deal. To confirm my identity, I shall hand the card to anyone who answers the door, hoping …’

  Here he paused and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘That whoever takes it will leave their fingerprints on it?’ I suggested.

  ‘Oh, well done, Watson! We’ll make a private detective consultant of you yet.’

  ‘What happens after that?’ I asked.

  ‘I shall ask Inspector Bardle to compare the prints on the card with those found on the scullery window at Melchett Manor and with a little luck, we shall find a match.’

  ‘And if there isn’t?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, don’t throw cold water on the plan yet!’ he protested. ‘Let us hope Lady Luck is on our side in the matter.’

  ‘And whatever is in the parcels is part of the plan?’ I continued.

  ‘If you wait a moment, I’ll show you,’ he said and left the room to go upstairs where I heard him rummaging around in his bedroom, returning shortly afterwards with the two brown paper packages, which he opened and laid down on the table. In addition, there was a third packet, much smaller than the others, containing a pair of side whiskers for Holmes and a small moustache for me which I suspected had come from Holmes’ original Baker Street collection of disguises.

  The contents of the other two parcels were a strange mixture of objects. In the badly wrapped parcel, which he had collected from the little shop selling motor vehicle parts, were two pairs of licence plates and a few screws wrapped up in a twist of newspaper; the second, the one from the gentlemen’s outfit in Lewes, contained a green uniform jacket, such as a chauffeur might wear, and a matching peaked cap which Holmes set down on my head.

  ‘It fits!’ he exclaimed. ‘I hoped it would but I had to guess the size. I didn’t want to give the game away by asking you.’

  ‘So what exactly is the game?’ I asked. ‘I assume I dress up as a chauffeur and drive you up to Fulworth Hall. But I am a little bewildered by the licence plates. Do I carry them? Or wear them around my neck?’

  We both burst out laughing at this point, the sort of laughter that clears the air and confirms a relationship between two people.

  ‘No, my dear Watson,’ Holmes explained when we had both recovered, ‘we screw them on the car in place of the original plates so that, if someone notices them, they can’t be traced.’

  ‘You mean I shall screw them on,’ I corrected him, never having seen Holmes handle a screwdriver in my long acquaintance with him.

  ‘Well, if you insist,’ he flashed back. ‘But let’s start for heaven’s sake. Mrs B will be arriving soon and what she will make of the pair of us defeats imagination, at least mine.’

  In the event, I found the screws were not needed, after all, having discovered the original connections were so firmly fixed that they were immovable and I had to fasten the number plates on with wire. That done, we changed our outfits to suit our new identities, myself in the green jacket, cap and wearing the moustache, Holmes in the side whiskers, cape and deer stalker, which he thought would live up to his image of an American bibliophile in England in search of Victorian literature.

  As Fulworth Hall was not far away, it took merely a few minutes to drive there, only to find the gate to the driveway was firmly padlocked and we were reduced to abandoning the car and squeezing around the end of one of the gateposts to make our entrance; not a very dignified way of arriving and I hoped no one in the house had witnessed it.

  But, as we crunched our way up the drive over the gravel, there seemed no one about: no curtain twitched, no face appeared at the window, the place appeared to be deserted.

  In my role, as a hired chauffeur, I
thought it best to remain at the foot of the steps, letting Holmes mount them alone, carrying, I noticed, the visiting card, which he carefully held by one corner. While I waited, I took a quick glance about me, taking in the details of Fulworth Hall and its setting for the sake of my own curiosity.

  It must have been an imposing place at one time, I imagined, with its portico and tiers of windows. But all it presented now was a travesty of its former beauty. Large pieces of stucco had fallen from the walls and pillars, revealing the bare brick that lay behind, while the paint had shrivelled off the wooden frames of the windows like scabs.

  As for the garden, that, too, had suffered the same neglect. There had once been a large lawn in front of the house, edged with flower borders and ornamental shrubs. All that remained was an oblong of shaggy grass and strips of unkempt ground dense with weeds and brambles.

  The rest of the garden was no better. Overgrown trees and bushes crowded out the view apart from a few glimpses of the cliffs and the far-off glitter of the sea. The only access to the cove was a dilapidated picket gate, that hung on its hinges, which I assumed led to the flight of steps down to the beach.

  Holmes meanwhile had knocked on the door with the round iron that hung in its centre and, receiving no reply, had knocked again.

  This time someone answered. At least, the door was opened a grudging few inches and a man’s face appeared at the gap.

  ‘Mr Whittaker?’ Holmes asked, speaking with the same American accent that he was to use later in August 1914 just before the outbreak of the Great War in bringing about the arrest of Von Bork, head of a German espionage ring that was sending vital information to the Kaiser about the British navy, such as the movement of shipping and other naval secrets, crucial to our success in the coming conflict.