Sherlock Holmes and the Missing Shakespeare (6 page)

So Holmes began his recount of the day’s events.

Chapter Eight:

Hot on the Trail

“The one person we have ruled out as being the perpetrator in the theft of the missing Shakespeare manuscript is, of course, the Honorable Sir Gerald Fitzwilliam. Yet he was there when it was discovered and he was the reason we were away when the manuscript was taken. I thought it prudent to discover as much as I could about his whereabouts while he was John Miller at Galham House.

“As John Miller was the gardener at Galham House, I started my investigations at the stores that sell supplies for gardening. There are a number of farmers who remember him, asking for manure to be delivered to the grounds. They all relayed the same really. John Miller was a very competent gardener, who knew exactly what he was doing. They also all wondered about his voice. He was not a local and his accent was something they could not quite grasp. He managed to hide the foreign accent in his voice for a part, but they all noticed the poshness in his speech.

“The general store and the blacksmith next door reported much the same. They recalled an unremarkable man who was a splendid gardener with the same oddities in speech and voice. The blacksmith also recalled that our man had ordered a ring to be made out of a piece of steel he provided. He never picked it up, for the next day, the tragedy at Galham House occurred.

“I also asked the blacksmith about a key in my possession. I did not think he would recognize it, but he did. He recognized it as his own work. He explained it to be the key to a strongbox he had constructed for a gentleman.”

“What gentleman?”

“Alas, I do not know.”

“Did he not give a name?”

“He did. John Smith.”

Soon after Holmes’s short tale, I retired to my rooms. In the morning, I took the pathologist’s report with me to my breakfast. I inquired whether Holmes was already having his tea or would care to join me momentarily, but the innkeeper told me Mr. Holmes had already left.

Holmes’s peculiar departure held my interest for only a few moments before I settled down at a table in the main hall and asked for the breakfast menu.

As soon as the pot of tea arrived, I opened up the pathology files again and read through the last reports. I was fascinated as I read deeper into the documents and was relieved that I had started with the reports instead of the crime scene photographs.

It seems that Lord Galham had, for all intents and purposes, lost his mind that night. He’d strangled his wife, Lady Mary, to death in their bed and then slit the throats of both his children with a hunting knife. Finally, Lord Galham threw himself off the balcony with his neck tied in a noose and hanged himself to death.

I was appalled and yet strangely intrigued. I couldn’t help but wonder what could have gone so dreadfully wrong that a well-respected, wealthy peer of the realm would murder his family and then kill himself. As I’d deduced earlier, he must have been squarely out of his mind.

When my soft boiled egg, sausages and toast arrived, I was well ready for the refreshment. I threw the files shut, pushed them aside and turned my attention to the meal. As I swallowed the last bite of toast and lifted the teacup to my lips, I was hit with a very important question.

I placed the cup back in the saucer and threw open the file; searching with everything I had to find the clue I needed. Alas, it wasn’t there.

“Oh, by George! I think I’ve found it,” I said to myself, but loud enough to warrant a raised eyebrow or two.

It didn’t take me long to get myself together and leave the public house. I gave the boy there a sixpence coin to hail a carriage for me while I stopped at the desk to send a telegram to my wife. I had to let her know that I would not be staying in Stratford-upon-Avon any longer, having been abandoned by Holmes. I only planned to do one last thing before catching the early afternoon train back to London.

When the cab pulled up, I boarded it and asked the driver to take me to Llewelyn Kendricks’s office as quickly as he could. At that point, it was all I could do to hope that my new friend would share my concern in the matter and help me get closer to the bottom of things.

I followed his clerk into the office and found Kendricks seated at his desk pouring over a pile of legal documents. As the clerk added even more files, he announced my arrival to his employer. It was apparently Kendricks’s morning for doing his work as a notary and he was fully engaged in cross-checking several facts before affixing his stamp and signature to the paperwork in each docket.

I cleared my throat, having realized he had not heard a word his clerk had said to him regarding my presence in his office. Finally, he glanced up, looking a bit harried, and waved me in. I took a seat across from him at the desk.

“I’ll wait until you are finished, my friend,” I started. “As what I have to tell you, and, even more so, what I wish to ask of you, are two very serious matters indeed.”

“I dare say, Watson,” he replied without looking up at me, “it all sounds like extremely grave business.”

“You wouldn’t even be able to guess the half of it, old boy.”

“Then you will appreciate some tea while you wait. I promise it won’t be long; you’ve rather piqued my interest.”

Kendricks called for a pot of tea to be brought in, as it was close to ten o’clock. A proper time for tea indeed. When it arrived a few moments later, steaming and fragrant, there were sandwiches and cakes along with it. I hadn’t realized I was hungry until I spotted the sandwiches. Ham, smoked salmon and egg sandwiches were perfectly complemented by tomato, cucumber and watercress selections. In contrast, a lighter fare had been selected for the sweet portion; it was only morning tea, after all. Still, I was quite delighted to see all of my favorites: lemon cake, madeleines and raisin scones. I immediately left the armchair in front of my friend and took a seat at the card table where the tea and food tray had been set up.

The smell of a delicious meal must have put some fire under the otherwise overwhelmed Kendricks because it wasn’t long after I’d swallowed my third sandwich that he placed his stamp down heavily on the desk, flourished the last signature and called for his clerk to come and clear away the pile of dockets.

He took the seat across from me and immediately began to fill his plate with sandwiches. I poured the tea while he made his selections, then waited patiently for him to polish off a sandwich or two before I began to speak.

“Well, by now you must be wondering why I barged into your office so early this morning without even so much as a prior appointment, Kendricks,” I started.

“Indeed, the thought had crossed my mind, Watson. But I, by no means, consider your company to be an inconvenience. It’s actually quite lovely to have a reason to get away from the desk and take a proper mid-morning break, for once,” he replied graciously. “I am curious, though, I’ll admit.”

“I’ll get to the matter at hand then,” I obliged. “Yesterday, I came into possession of the pathologist’s reports from the deaths of the late Lord Galham and his family and I have happened upon a few of the doctor’s observations that concern me.”

“The pathology reports? How did you…”

I put up my hands in protest to stop him from continuing along that line of questioning and simply stated, “I have my resources, Kendrick.” He nodded his acceptance of my explanation and lifted his teacup to his lips, waiting for me to proceed.

“I found that the doctor had not pursued an explanation of the signs I noticed and I could only surmise that at that time, he may not have recognized them or had the resources to proceed with the proper testing.”

Kendricks’s face revealed that he was intrigued with what I had to say, so I decided to give him a few clues. If I were to expect the man to help me in the manner I needed, he would have to get a better feel for where I was going in the investigation.

“I noticed there was a white residue around the mouths of Lord Galham, Lady Mary and the children. Also, their lips bore a slight bluish tinge.” Kendricks was at a loss as to the meaning of my observation, as any layman would be, so I explained further. “It seems that they may have been forced to inhale chloroform, perhaps from a rag soaked in the solution then placed over their nose and mouth. It would have, at the very least, put them in a very drugged state and, at the worst, completely rendered them unconscious.”

An expression of comprehension spread over the lawyer’s face and a grin played at the corner of his lips.

“And you say that Roger’s body also exhibited these signs?”

“Indeed, good sir.”

“But that would mean that he was as much a victim as the rest of the family unless the unlikely happened, which would be that he drugged himself.”

“Precisely!” I said and continued to sip my tea.

“You think someone murdered his family and then killed Roger in an effort to frame him for the crime?”

“Dead men tell no tales, Kendricks.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. The words sank in slowly as we drank our tea and moved on to the sweet treats on the cake stand. Finally, he asked, “But what has that all to do with me, Watson?”

“That, dear sir, is the winning question!” I replied, jumping up from my seat with excitement. I may have been overplaying the suspense a little bit but I had to. What I was about to ask Kendrick to do was quite close to bordering on an illegal activity. But I hoped he would now feel driven by his conscience to provide a solution to the mystery. “You were the custodian of the late earl’s will, were you not?” Kendricks nodded cautiously. “I suspect that the contents of his will may have been altered to name a different beneficiary than he had originally intended. If that is indeed the case, then we would have true motive for the crime and a clear line of sight to the perpetrator.”

He shrugged. “So, how do I come in?”

“I would like to see the original will and testament of the late Earl of Galham.”

“And I would have loved nothing more than to show it to you but it is no longer in my possession. Not even a copy.”

“What? How is that possible? Were you not the man’s sole solicitor and your father before you?”

“Indeed. However, it is the right of the executor of the estate that, once the will was read in an open forum for all the family to hear, to retain the document and that’s exactly what Reginald did. In fact, he retrieved the will from me in its original sealed state some three days before the date set for the reading. As there was nothing out of the ordinary in its contents and it was quite in line with the usual inheritance practices, I had not even seen the need to keep a copy.”

I pondered on that for a moment and suddenly it hit me like a bolt of lightning.

“Could you say conclusively that the document read at the gathering was the same one you had given to Reginald three days prior?”

“Conclusively, no. Now that I think of it, I only checked that the writing and signature were as I knew them to be the earl’s and that the signature on the papers had been properly witnessed by an independent individual. Which they were. So, I had no hesitation in notarizing the will.” Suddenly, a look of realization spread over Kendricks’s face. “Oh, dear God! Do you think Reginald changed the contents of his brother’s will?”

“Yes, dear sir. I certainly do.”

We sat in silence for a moment until I had an idea.

“I’m sorry to put you on the spot, old chap, but I think I should warn you that there may be a time in the very near future where either myself or Holmes might be forced to ask a great deal of you in our efforts to bring our suspect to justice. Are you in the game?”

“I’ve been made a fool of, Watson. As a solicitor and a notary, I take that very personally. As long as you or Mr. Holmes makes a clear request of me, I’m obligated to help. You have my word on that.”

“Excellent!”

Chapter Nine:

The Pieces Fall

I arrived home at around half past two that afternoon, much to my wife’s pleasure.

I had eaten a light lunch on the train so she didn’t have to rush the afternoon tea for my benefit. We sat in the parlor while she finished some needlework she had been working on and though I pretended to read the afternoon newspaper, my mind kept wandering back to my conversation with Kendricks. I was uneasy and it was painfully obvious that I would not be able to think of anything else until I had related the news to Holmes.

“Dear?” I asked my wife. She looked up dutifully from her sewing and I continued. “I know it rather late in the day but do you think there is any way that I could get a telegram off to Baker Street? It’s rather urgent.”

“Well, if it’s rather urgent, I’m sure the neighbor’s boy, Conner, would be happy to run a letter over there himself,” she suggested. Then added with a smile, “All you’d have to do is provide the right amount of enticement.” She winked and rubbed her forefinger and thumb together in the universal symbol for monetary compensation. I gave her a knowing smile and a nod.

While I scribbled my message to Holmes, she went out the back door to call to the neighbor’s wife and ask if we could borrow Conner’s services for the task. I ensured to give enough details in the letter that Holmes might find it imperative to come see me that evening but not too much that the clever old boy might figure things out on his own and leave me out of the mystery solving.

I laughed as soon as I had thought it, knowing with a level of certainty that the likelihood of the latter occurring was rather high.

By the time the boy stepped into the parlor with his cap in his hand, I had the letter sealed and ready for delivery and it went into young Conner’s hand accompanied by a shiny shilling.

An hour later, just as my wife was setting out the tea things, Conner returned and stood politely at the back door. She ushered him into my office where I was seated at the desk going over the Galham pathology files again and making notes on my observations.

“Did you find Mr. Holmes at the Baker Street residence, boy?” I asked him without looking up from the papers.

“Yes, sir. I did, sir.”

“Very good. Any response from him?”

“He did send a note back with me, sir,” the boy replied, approaching my desk and handing me a folded piece of paper.

“Well done, young Conner. Now run along. Mrs. Watson will have a treat of some sort in the kitchen for you to have with your tea.”

The boy smiled widely and made his way back to the rear of the house.

Once alone, I unfolded the paper and read its content, sighing loudly as I threw it onto the table in front of me.

“Well, that can’t be good news,” I heard from the doorway.

“He’s figured it out.”

“Just like that?”

“Indeed, my dear wife. That’s our friend, Holmes. Just… like… that.”

***

As my friend’s note had stated, Holmes arrived at my house just in time to join me in my study for an aperitif before dinner. It had been a week since I had returned from Stratford-upon-Avon and the exact evening he had indicated I should expect his visit.

My wife had set out a small amuse-bouche of fois gras, water crackers and thinly sliced ripe figs and apricots; I poured us each a small glass of dry sherry and took a seat in my favorite armchair. Holmes sat by the open window and lit his pipe.

I had been rather concerned about his peculiar disappearance from the public house and wondered what had prompted his behavior. More importantly, having become a bit of an expert in deciphering Sherlock’s strange behavior over the years, I knew his disappearance was directly linked to some clue or other he had untangled in the case. I was therefore rather curious to find out what he had discovered over the past week.

As a courtesy to my wife, Holmes and I kept our conversation for after dinner and made pleasant conversation on many other topics during the meal. Mrs. Watson was particularly occupied with the observations Sherlock made on the wide varieties of meadow plant and insect life in Stratford-upon-Avon. Having been raised in a rural county, she was completely engaged by the subject and it made me happy to watch their carefree banter at the table.

With dinner complete, we men retired to my office. I had barely shut the door before Holmes began to ramble about how he should have seen something sooner. I was secretly relieved that I wouldn’t have to press him about the case; in my experience, one got a rather dull response from the detective if he felt interrogated during a conversation.

He stopped his muttering and turned to me. “It’s becoming increasingly obvious that you discovered something in Stratford-upon-Avon that you’re practically bursting to tell me,” he said.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that I’m bursting, Holmes, but I am quite sure my discovery is of significant importance to solving the case.”

“Let’s have it then,” he snapped.

I proceeded to tell him about my suspicion that chloroform had in fact been utilized to render the Galham family unconscious prior to their murders. I explained that perhaps the clue had gone unnoticed as a result of a combination of country policing and the pathologist’s inability to identify and test for the substance.

“Indeed, Watson. Tests for substances of this sort are still in its infancy, and, since a conclusion of murder and then suicide had perhaps been prematurely made by the police, the doctor would not have foreseen the need to pursue the matter.”

“That was exactly my line of thinking, Holmes.”

“It’s a plausible one. Good job, my man.” I smiled at his praise, knowing full well that there was more. “However, I think we are beyond confirming that the Galhams were victims of foul play.”

I let his comment sink in, realizing he was, as usual, ahead of me in the game, before raising the subject of his hasty retreat from the town. I asked, “What happened to you in Stratford-upon-Avon? You seemed to just disappear into the night.”

“It’s a very strange tale, my dear Watson, but the idea came to me after you left my room. I was sitting by the window smoking my pipe and just as if a brisk wind had hit my face, the notion of what the motive behind our case might be came to me.” I knew better than to interrupt him once he had started his narrative of discovery, so I took a seat by the fireplace and listened intently instead. “I wondered, could the break in at Baker Street and the subsequent theft of the manuscript have just been a smokescreen? And… if that were the case, what was its purpose? Perhaps, I thought, it was to keep us occupied with a mystery that had very little to do with the real mystery at hand. It occurred to me, Watson, that a secret as consequential as the possession of a lost masterpiece by the Great Bard himself could actually be the least of Galham House’s innuendos.

“That morning, I visited the local records office and, after quite a fair bit of digging around, I found what I was looking for: the names of all the local midwives who were practicing at the time when Lady Edith, the Dowager Countess of Galham, was residing as the Countess of Galham House.”

“Midwives? What in heaven’s name for, Holmes?” As was to be expected, he completely ignored my question and continued his recollection.

“After sifting through that list, I found there were only three of those women still alive and living around Penstone Heath, so I visited them all in person. On my second try, I met a pleasant woman by the name of Annabel Moseley, who claimed she attended to Lady Edith on all matters of the female constitution during all the countess’s years at Galham. She examined Edith regularly and had her on a very strict regimen of herbal remedies for some of the countess’s health concerns. Listed prominently among them were dried berries of vitex agnus-castus, dioscorea villosa and viburnum prunifolium.”

I thought about what Holmes was telling me for a moment and as I slowly began to recognize the scientific names for vitex or chaste tree berry, wild yam root and black haw, my jaw dropped almost to the floor. They were all well-known medieval herbal remedies traditionally used by midwives and herbalist to prevent miscarriage, treat a condition callously referred to as ‘irritable uterus’ and believed to stop uterine spasm and contractions.

“Mrs. Moseley also informed me that Lady Edith made two trips to her familial home during that time and in both instances, she returned with a newborn baby. Both hiatuses were approximately forty-two weeks long and consistent with a departure in very early pregnancy, followed by a return home shortly after giving birth. The midwife told me that aside from having her feelings a little hurt, she found nothing out of the ordinary with the practice. A lot of the older aristocratic families still follow such patterns of childbirth; in particular, leaving home.

“However, Annabel did go on to tell me one other very interesting thing. It seems that on the first of these occasions, the Countess unnecessarily delayed examinations by the midwife, even though it was customary that frequent checks on both mother and child be made to record and monitor their progress. Annabel claims that she was not able to see Mary before at least six months had passed and, by then, she claims everything was back to normal with the countess and she seemed as if she had never gone through the rigors of pregnancy and childbirth. According to the midwife, that is not uncommon with the upper-class women, though, as they are usually well fed and exercised all their lives.”

“So the woman took fertility herbs and then she got pregnant. What has that got to do with anything, Sherlock?” I asked, only resorting to his first name out of complete exasperation.

“Once again, Watson, you fail in an attempt at backward reasoning. Furthermore, you haven’t heard me out!”

“You mean, there’s even more exciting news about the countess’s childbirth habits and practices?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

“There
is
more, and the most important clue at that. And eye rolls are not becoming of a man of your stature, Watson. Leave it for the younger generation. Now, Edith’s return from the second pregnancy went a little differently. Mrs. Moseley was invited to attend the countess and her newborn child within a day of their arrival at Galham House. In her estimation, the observations she made were consistent with the normal condition of a postpartum woman and, therefore, reflective of a true and successful pregnancy and delivery.”

“In other words, she has proof of Reginald’s birth but not of Roger’s.”

“Exactly so.”

“How exactly does that help our case, Holmes?” I asked, veritably begging my infuriating friend.

“Backward reasoning, Watson. The crime at the epicenter of everything is the murder of the Galhams. What was the reason for the atrocity? Reasoning backwards would go something like this: Who would stand to gain from the family’s death? Was the will changed? If so, what would be the real purpose of that with the laws regarding inheritance being as defined as they are for aristocratic holdings? What content could have been in it that could change the way the pieces lay on the game board?”

“Reginald’s legitimacy!” I cried.

“See? You can reason backwards.”

I stood and paced. “In that case, the midwife confirming the countess’s condition wouldn’t be any proof against Reginald. If anything, I’d think that question would strengthen an argument for Reginald’s legitimacy.”

“Not by any means, Watson! It proves Reginald is his mother’s child perhaps, but Countess Edith Galham did not hold the title in her own right, her husband did. And in the case of Roger and Reginald, we have yet to confirm who their father was.”

***

Before leaving my house that night, Sherlock told me another tale.

Though he had made it sound as if the question of Roger and Reginald’s parentage was a question that was still up in the air, Holmes had made it his business while in Stratford-upon-Avon to find out everything that he could about the matter. As it had turned out, while I was spending the morning coming to my own conclusions in Llewelyn Kendricks’s office, Holmes had been busy about town with his research. Knowing full well that his abandoning me at the inn would prompt my immediate return to London, he spent the afternoon in the village procuring an invitation for himself to an opulent garden party which Reginald Galham was to be giving that weekend.

That Saturday afternoon, he arrived impeccably dressed at the door of Harcourt Hall and acted as escort to Lady Jessica Flora of Harcourt and Avon. Since the theft of the manuscript, Holmes had felt indebted to Lady Jessica while at the same time being convinced she might be in danger from the thief.

They went by carriage to Galham House and joined a multitude of aristocratic guests on the estate’s extravagant south lawn. The last days of summer provided perfect outdoor weather for Reginald’s guests and the boisterous group regaled themselves with lawn games, and excessive eating and drinking. By the time the sun had set, most of the party guests were rather intoxicated.

One by one, the visitors went upstairs and changed for dinner at the sound of the evening gong before proceeding to the drawing room for more drinks and then going in for their meal. It was a sumptuous affair but also strategically sobering as well. Afterward, the men retired to Reginald’s game room and Kendricks was kind enough to remain close to Holmes so as not to isolate him from the crowd of affluent men in attendance. In my opinion, Holmes was rather capable of handling himself in any situation quite competently, but Kendricks provided him the perfect vehicle from which Holmes could conduct an in-depth observation of both his quarry and his surroundings.