Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes, The, The (3 page)

She was clearly overcome with emotion and left soon afterwards, Mr Cassell escorting her to the door and summoning a four-wheeler to take her home.

He returned to the office smiling broadly and rubbing his hands together with delight.

‘What a truly wonderful outcome!’ he declared. ‘Mrs Conk-Singleton is indeed a very fortunate lady. She will be financially secure for the rest of her life and there will be no further need for her to paint fake Constables on the back of old masters to save the cost of a new canvas!’

‘So it was a happy ending after all, Holmes,’ I could not help remarking later as we made our way back to Baker Street in a hansom.

Holmes threw back his head and laughed heartily.

‘Your optimism is indeed vindicated, my dear fellow,’ he replied, adding with a sly sideways glance at me, ‘At least on this occasion.’

It was eight o’clock on a fine June morning and Holmes and I were seated at the breakfast table, he reading some correspondence which the postman had just delivered, I scanning in a desultory manner the pages of the
Daily News
and thinking rather wistfully how pleasant it would be to spend the day somewhere on the coast away from the heat and noise of London, when Holmes suddenly remarked, ‘What would you say to a little outing to the seaside, my dear fellow? To Brighton, for example?’

‘How extraordinary, Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘The same idea for a day’s outing occurred to me only a moment ago. You must have read my mind.’

‘Not in this instance, my dear fellow, although I must confess at times your face so clearly expresses what is going on inside your head that it resembles a
page in a book. So I might have divined your thoughts from the way you glanced towards the window and gave that pensive little sigh. In this case, however, it was this letter which prompted my remark. It is from a Miss Edith Pilkington, a middle-aged lady to judge from her handwriting, who is staying at the Regal Hotel in Brighton and who writes: “Dear Mr Holmes, I trust you will forgive my addressing you without a formal introduction but I would very much appreciate your advice over a matter which is causing me considerable concern. I am companion to a lady, a Mrs Huxtable, who has recently become acquainted with a certain medical gentleman, Dr Joseph Wilberforce, and his sister Miss Adelaide Wilberforce, who are also guests at the Regal Hotel. Although I have no proof that they are untrustworthy, I have nevertheless become uneasy about their relationship with Mrs Huxtable, who is a widow and has no immediate family to take an interest in her.

‘“Because Mrs Huxtable is in poor health and relies on my companionship, it would be very difficult for me to come to London to consult you and, although I am aware I am imposing heavily on your generosity, I wondered if it might be possible to meet you in Brighton one afternoon between two o’clock and three o’clock when Mrs Huxtable has her afternoon rest to discuss the matter with you?

‘“I remain, sir, Yours etc. Edith Pilkington.”

‘Well, Watson, what do you make of that?’ Holmes continued, folding up the letter and returning it to its envelope.

‘Make of it, Holmes? I am not sure I make anything of it. It sounds a straightforward enough appeal, although in my opinion she is expecting quite a lot of both your generosity and your time.’

‘No, no, my dear fellow. You do not understand,’ Holmes broke in impatiently. ‘Neither my time nor my beneficence have anything to do with it. It is the situation which is important. Think back a few years. Do you recall a remark I once made regarding foxes and stray chickens?’

‘Really, Holmes!’ I began to protest but he overrode me.

‘Concerning an exceptionally astute and dangerous man?’

As I remained silent, cudgelling my brains to call up any incident from the past which might fit this description, Holmes continued, ‘Oh, come, Watson! Your memory deteriorates year by year. You should exercise it as one would exercise any part of one’s physical body. Think of your mind as a set of drawers in which you store any information which could be useful to your requirements. Then, when you have need for any of it, you simply open that particular drawer and – hey presto! – the facts are lying there ready to be used.’

He paused for a moment before continuing, ‘I see from your expression that all your drawers are not only closed but securely locked as well. Allow me, then, to provide you with a key to at least one of them. Does the name “Holy Peters” free any recollections for you?’

‘Oh, of course, Holmes!’ I exclaimed, light suddenly dawning. ‘The case of Lady Frances Carfax and that unspeakable clergyman and his wife who attempted to murder her in order to steal her jewels. Now what on earth was his real name?’
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Holmes began to chuckle.

‘I shall not extend this memory game any further, my dear fellow. It could go on all morning. So let me bring it to a halt by telling you that his name, at least at the time of the Carfax inquiry, was the Rev. Dr Schlessinger and he claimed to be a missionary from South America, whereas he was, in fact, an Australian by birth and one of the most unscrupulous rogues that country has ever produced. His so-called wife, although I doubt if their relationship was ever legally sanctioned, was English and her real name was Annie Fraser. They made
their living by preying on lonely spinsters or widows, stripping them of any financial assets they might possess – money, jewels, bonds – anything that could be turned into ready cash. And once their victim had been bled dry, they had no compunction about dispensing with her as well, either by abandoning her in some out-of-the-way foreign
pension
or disposing of her literally, as they attempted to do in the case of Lady Frances Carfax.

‘I believe at the time I described such women as “stray chickens in a world of foxes”, an apt simile and one that I am convinced can be applied with equal validity to Dr Wilberforce and his sister, who my intuition tells me are none other than the Rev. Dr Schlessinger and his wife reincarnated in Brighton.’

‘Then we must act at once, Holmes!’ I declared, remembering with horror the fate that almost befell Lady Frances Carfax
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who, had not Holmes intervened at the last moment, would have been buried alive.

‘My thought exactly,’ Holmes agreed, getting up from the table and fetching his coat and stick. ‘I
propose sending a telegram this very minute.’

‘To Inspector Lestrade?’

‘Not yet, Watson. First we must begin by making sure of our ground. At the moment, we have nothing but supposition. We need facts first and then a strategy to go with them.’

Before I could offer to accompany him, he strode purposefully from the room. Seconds later, I heard the street door slam shut behind him.

He returned within the hour looking jubilant.

‘The first hurdle has been crossed,’ he announced. ‘As the mountain cannot come to Mahomet, Mahomet shall go to the mountain. I have sent a telegram to Miss Pilkington at the Regal Hotel, arranging to meet her in Brighton this afternoon.’

‘At the hotel?’

‘No, no, my dear fellow! That would be folly indeed. If you recall, we met Holy Peters face to face at his lodgings in Poultney Square during the Carfax inquiry. He would recognise us at once. I have suggested to Miss Pilkington that she leaves the Regal on the dot of a quarter past two, ostentatiously carrying something in her right hand so that we may identify her, and proceeds to some suitable venue, where we shall meet to discuss the situation. That is the first step. If I am convinced that Dr Wilberforce is indeed Holy Peters, then we can take the second step, which is to book ourselves rooms in the same hotel.’

As I was about to protest at this suggestion, Holmes smiled and held up his hand.

‘Rest assured, Watson, that if we do so, Holy Peters will not recognise us for the simple reason that we shall be disguised. Now, be a good fellow and pass me the Bradshaw
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and I shall look up the next suitable train to Brighton.’ It was with considerable anticipation that I set off with Holmes later that morning for Victoria station.

It was some time since I had accompanied him on a mission and I felt my pulses quicken at the prospect, more especially in this case, for I recalled with a shudder of revulsion that loathsome duo of Holy Peters and his female accomplice. Life with Holmes seldom lacked interest and I realised how much I owed him not only in friendship and companionship but also in that zest for adventure which he always aroused in me.

We arrived in Brighton with a good half an hour to spare before our assignment with Miss Pilkington, and spent the intervening time sauntering up and down the esplanade with the other holidaymakers, enjoying the sun, the sea breeze and the general air of pleasure and relaxation. The prospect was superb. To our left lay the glittering sea and the crowded beach, blossoming like a
herbaceous border with gaily coloured parasols; to our right the long splendid vista of hotels and restaurants, their façades painted in pastel shades of vanilla and peach and the pale yellow of rich clotted cream, resembling so many delicious pastries temptingly laid out for our delectation.

The Regal was one of the larger hotels, with a glassed-in veranda running the entire length of its ground floor in which we could glimpse some of its guests lounging on steamer chairs amid a miniature grove of potted palms. Waiters moved softly between them bearing trays of tall glasses which appeared at that distance to contain iced sherbet or cordials, or perhaps strawberry ice cream.

At the next corner, directly opposite the newly opened Palace Pier, Holmes consulted his watch and, with a sideways glance at me, remarked, ‘It is time we kept our rendezvous with Miss Pilkington, Watson.’

We strolled back towards the Regal Hotel in a leisurely manner and were just drawing level with the steps leading up to its entrance when the doors were thrown open by a flunkey and a small figure dressed in grey emerged from the foyer and, pausing to glance up and down the seafront, set off purposefully along the esplanade in front of us. We were not more than ten yards away and we could see quite clearly the folded newspaper she was carrying in her right hand.

‘Our correspondent, I think,’ Holmes remarked as we
fell in behind her, keeping our distance but making sure we did not lose sight of her among the crowds.

We continued in this manner for several minutes until, with a backward glance at us, she turned down a side street and entered a modest little tea shop with lace curtains at the window and a sign, ‘The Copper Kettle’, hanging above the door. Holmes and I followed her inside and joined her at a small round table tucked away in a discreet corner.

‘Miss Pilkington, I assume?’ Holmes remarked pleasantly. ‘I am Sherlock Holmes. May I introduce my colleague, Dr Watson?’

We shook hands in turn with a short, plain, little woman in her fifties, I estimated, with grey hair drawn back into a neat, no-nonsense bun and whose crisp, forthright manner suggested an experienced governess or schoolmistress.

‘Now,’ Holmes continued as all three of us were seated and he had ordered tea and cakes from the elderly waitress, ‘as I stated in my telegram to you, Miss Pilkington, I am most interested in the account you put before me in your letter, but before I take the matter any further, there are certain facts which I must first establish. You will, I trust, have no objection to that?’

‘No, of course not,’ Miss Pilkington replied. ‘I am only too happy to assist you as it is the facts of the situation regarding my employer, Mrs Huxtable, that
are causing me so much disquiet. I wish to know if these new acquaintances of hers, Dr Wilberforce and his sister, are to be trusted.’

‘Ah, Dr Wilberforce!’ Holmes murmured. ‘Could you please give me a few details about him? His age, for example, and his appearance?’

‘Well,’ Miss Pilkington drew a deep breath before beginning an account of such fluency that I suspected she had rehearsed it in her mind several times already, ‘Dr Wilberforce is a well-built, middle-aged man, bald-headed and clean-shaven, with a rather florid complexion.’

‘An excellent description!’ Holmes remarked and I was amused to notice that she blushed a becoming pink at the compliment. When he wished to, my old friend had an enviable talent for setting his clients, especially women, at their ease.
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‘Now were there any distinguishing features about him that you also noticed, such as a scar or a birthmark?’

As he spoke, he cast a quick sideways glance in my direction as if to draw my attention to a certain significance in his remark, but it meant nothing to me at the time and neither, apparently, to Miss Pilkington, who shook her head.

‘Not that I noticed,’ she replied.

Holmes seemed disappointed but continued smoothly as if her answer had had no effect on him at all, ‘Very well, then. Let us move to another aspect of the matter, that of the doctor’s personality. What was it about him that roused your suspicions?’

This time Miss Pilkington hesitated before speaking, which made me conclude that she had not given this side of the matter the same attention she had applied to his physical appearance and that probably she was relying on her intuition rather than any rational consideration. However, after a long moment she said in a rapid little burst of words, ‘It sounds ridiculous, Mr Holmes, but he smiles too much.’

‘Ah!’ Holmes said softly as if he perfectly understood. ‘“A man may smile and smile and be a villain.”’

Miss Pilkington’s face lit up.

‘Shakespeare, is it not, Mr Holmes?’

‘Indeed it is; from
Hamlet
, to be precise, and refers to Claudius, one of the Bard’s most cunning villains.’

‘Together with Iago,’ she riposted, before adding with greater certainty, ‘I feel most strongly that he and his sister have wheedled their way into Mrs Huxtable’s good books with dubious intentions.’

‘Is that your belief? Then tell me about your employer, Mrs Huxtable,’ Holmes continued, leaning back in his chair in a comfortable manner, inviting her confidence. ‘How old is she, for instance? I deduce
from your letter that she is in her late sixties. Am I correct?’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘And she is also a widow in poor health?’

‘Her late husband was George W. Huxtable, a manufacturer of Sheffield tableware.
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They had no children and as far as I can ascertain there are no close relatives. He died about four years ago, leaving the house and a considerable fortune to his widow. After his death, she advertised for a companion to accompany her on foreign travel. As I have lived abroad for several years – tutoring the children at various embassies and overseas delegations – and wanted a change of occupation, I applied for the post and Mrs Huxtable engaged me. Since then we have been travelling on the Continent together, largely in the Mediterranean, staying at spas and seaside resorts. She suffers from a bronchial complaint, you see, and her doctor has advised a dry, warm climate. We returned to England this summer so that Mrs Huxtable could settle one or two financial arrangements with her bank and oversee the sale of the house in Sheffield, which she had been leasing to tenants. The transaction took longer than expected and, rather than remain in London during the
height of summer, she decided to move to Brighton so that her agent and solicitor could visit her fairly easily by train.’