Текст книги "A Farewell to Baker Street"

Автор книги: Mark Mower

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

In summary, you now know the full story. I have written this letter to you to set the record straight and to invite you to come forward and accept what is rightfully yours, the Descartes Inheritance. Clearly, I did not want to send you any money with this letter, for the risks that this might pose. However, if you could write back to me or make arrangements to travel to England, I will be more than happy to arrange for the transfer of the money into any bank account you suggest.

I intend to honour my promises to your father and will ensure that you receive all that is due to you.

I remain yours truly,

David Harker

***

It was about eight-thirty that evening when Holmes finished the recital, to great excitement. For the first few minutes, Wattisfield, Curtis and I talked eagerly, astonished that such an incredible story appeared to lay behind the curious events which had befallen the manor house earlier that day. Only Holmes remained silent, his brow furrowed, as he stared up at a painting of David Harker – or Peter Coleman as we then knew him – which hung above the fireplace of the spacious room. When at last he spoke, it was with some disappointment. “This is indeed a convoluted state of affairs, my friends, and some elements of this mystery remain unclear to me.”

It was Wattisfield who replied. “Such as, Mr Holmes?”

“Well, the letter was written in 1921. It seems curious that our man should wait the better part of five years to travel across to England to claim this Descartes Inheritance. And in doing so, he finds Harker to be deceased, which can only have added to his difficulties in seeking to obtain what was rightfully his. And knowing that Barrington Henshaw had assisted Harker in locating him, it seems odd, again, that Descartes did not appeal to the man’s better nature and present the Harker letter as proof of his claim.”

“I take your point, Mr Holmes, but we should be in a position to run all of that past the young valet very soon. I have arranged for him to be brought here for questioning first thing tomorrow, and Mrs Dawson has extended us an invitation to dine at Trimingham this evening and to stay overnight.”

“That is most welcome,” said Holmes. “Bravo, for Mrs Dawson! She puts me in mind of another very able housekeeper, for whom I had every admiration.” He cast me a glance, before adding with touching candour: “Alongside your good self, Watson, Mrs Hudson was as close a companion as I ever had. Her passing was a great blow to me.”

It was the first, and only, time I had ever known him to speak so affectionately of our long-dead landlady and housekeeper. In that moment, I realised that the ten years of his physical isolation and self-imposed mental introspection in Sussex had left Holmes as lonely and vulnerable as I. With the loss of my dear wife, some seven years before, I had never come to terms with living alone. And it was clear to me that for all of his upbeat banter and declarations about the virtues of self-sufficiency neither had my dear friend.

The next morning, I awoke to see the sun already warming and illuminating the large double room that I had slept in at Trimingham. When I ventured downstairs some thirty minutes later, I was embarrassed to find that Holmes and Wattisfield had been up for a good two hours and a telephone call to the manor had confirmed that Descartes was on his way and likely to be with us within fifteen minutes. They told me that Curtis had been relieved from his overnight watch over the crime scene, which made me feel doubly guilty that I had slept in for so long.

I helped myself to two rashers of bacon, some toast and a spoonful of scrambled egg from the serving dishes which Mrs Dawson had left in the dining room, as Holmes and Wattisfield sat engrossed in the headlines of the day’s newspapers.

It was twenty minutes later, when I heard the bell ring loudly at the door of the manor and followed Holmes through to greet the prisoner. Descartes cut a rather poor figure, dwarfed as he was by two burly uniformed constables on either side of him. He was around five feet, nine inches tall, with black hair, a small dark moustache and matching goatee beard. His keen eyes were an intense blue hue and his gaze most piercing. On being introduced to us by Wattisfield, he nodded his head and said in a distinctly Germanic tone, “Good morning, gentlemen.”

Directed by the Chief Inspector, we assembled once more in the drawing room. Wattisfield, Holmes and I sat on a large sofa to one side of the fireplace. Descartes was seated on a sofa facing us, his two guards having been directed to stand by the door. Under the watchful gaze of the young German, Wattisfield removed the Harker letter from inside his jacket and placed it very visibly on a small coffee table in front of us. Descartes sat up smartly, a look of trepidation on his face.

Holmes sought to reassure him. “Herr Descartes. Please do not be alarmed. Having read the letter, we understand fully why you came to Trimingham and the very colourful story behind your family inheritance. What is still unclear to me, however, is why you waited so long to respond to Harker’s invitation and why you did not take Henshaw into your confidence on first arriving at the manor? Perhaps you could start with the letter?”

A look of anguish settled on Descartes’ face. “I can tell you everything you need to know about that damned letter – a document that has forever ruined my life, despite the enormous potential it could and should have held for me. While David Harker sent the letter in August 1921, I knew nothing of its existence until six months ago. Since that time I have sought to claim only what is rightfully mine, although I now realise that in doing so, I have unwittingly placed my head inside a hangman’s noose. My tale is best told from the start, gentlemen, so you would be wise to ensure that you are sitting comfortably, for there is much to tell.”

Holmes smiled appreciatively and extended his left hand to prompt Descartes to recount his tale. What followed was every bit as compelling as the Harker letter.

“My name is Heinz Descartes, although my birth certificate records me more formally as ‘Heinrich’. Until reading the Harker letter earlier this year, I knew little about my father, Franz Descartes, who died during the war when I was sixteen years old. At that time, I lived with my mother, Nicole, in the Altona district of Hamburg. But when she passed away in the summer of 1919, I moved into a nearby house with Aunt Hilde, one of my mother’s older sisters.

“I grew very much attached to Hilde Rosen, a woman in failing health who doted on me as if I were her own. Over time, the idiopathic hydrocephalus she endured began slowly to eat away at her body and mind. Confused and subject to occasional blackouts, she became convinced, in all but her most lucid moments, that I really was her son – a role that I was happy to play along with given my own emotional deprivations.

“On the day that Harker’s letter arrived, it is likely that Hilde opened it, not realising that it was addressed to me. In the two years that I had lived with her, I had never previously received any correspondence. But as she began to read, I believe she would have realised to her surprise that it was intended for me.

“Being able to read English sufficiently well to understand the opening few paragraphs and the serious nature of the communication, she would have continued to read the remainder of the letter in her private quarters – this she always did with important correspondence, sat at her bureau amid the splendour and finery of her French-style parlour. I can imagine that by the end of the document she understood enough of its contents to decide that I must never see the letter – perhaps she would not allow me to be taken in by what she believed to be a confidence trickster, who had invented a pack of lies to entice a young man to leave his home for foreign soil. But in that moment of illness or calculation, she put at risk the inheritance that was my birthright and that David Harker had struggled so hard to preserve. Whatever her motivations, I believe that Hilde placed the letter in the locked and hidden draw of her bureau, where it remained undiscovered for nearly five years.

“In the summer of 1923, two years after Harker’s original letter, a second envelope arrived at the house addressed to me. On this occasion, I had intercepted the post and opened it. It was not a long letter. In fact, it was somewhat curt and to the point. It merely informed me, that as two years had passed and I had been unable or unwilling to contact Harker, the latter felt he had done all that he could to honour his promise to Franz Descartes, my father. It went on to say that if he did not receive any subsequent communication from me in the next six months, he would consider the matter closed by mutual consent. The letter was written by the solicitor, Barrington Henshaw.

“You have to understand that this letter meant nothing to me at the time. I had then only a basic grasp of English and needed some help with the translation. But I was troubled by the reference to my father. When I showed the document to Hilde, over breakfast that morning, she feigned disinterest and advised me to ignore the letter, suggesting that it was likely to be a crude attempt to extort money from us. Trusting in my Aunt’s judgement, I discarded the letter, although I never forgot about it.

“Over the next year, with Hilde’s health and private income both in decline, I took on a number of jobs to put food on the table. At dawn, I rose early to deliver fish from the docks to a number of the fishmongers in the Fischmarkt. Throughout the day, I worked as a wages clerk in a small brush-making factory. And at least three nights a week, I worked for a shipping firm. My wages from all three jobs were sufficient to allow us to survive in those difficult times.

“In December 1924, Hilde finally passed away, leaving her home and belongings to me. At her funeral, all but the few family members present believed me to be her son. I was devastated by the loss and unable to continue living alone in the house. I sold the property and most of the furniture, keeping only a few of Hilde’s most treasured possessions including, crucially, her walnut bureau or bonheur-du-jour with its scarlet lacquer and gilt inlays.

“A few months later, after a number of unsuccessful applications, I was offered and accepted a position as a domestique in a large French chateau in Bourbon, in the Allier area of the Auvergne Region, not far from the City of Bourges. I was keen to escape the hardships of my home country and start a new life and career in the birthplace of my father. The bureau went with me to France and did not look out of place in my spacious attic bedroom within the Chateau Roche.

“Each day I worked hard at my job, learning more and more from the head of service and improving my command of many languages to better serve the family’s numerous foreign visitors. Each evening, I sat at the bureau writing out my thoughts and observations in a diary. The initial hostility of the other staff to me being German was lessened by the fact that I had French ancestry, as evidenced by my surname. I was also well regarded by my employer, such that when the elderly major-domo passed away in the spring of this year, I was offered the top job, running the domestic affairs of the Roche household as efficiently as I could.

“One cold April night, as I was putting a few lines into my diary, I observed that the veneer covering one part of the bureau’s inner panels, close to the three main drawers, appeared to be loose, as if peeling away from the wood beneath. I pulled gently at it with my forefinger and was surprised to find that the panel came away from its recess revealing a hidden drawer. I was excited by the discovery and amazed that I had never known of its existence. Unfortunately, the drawer was locked and I had no key, but such was my enthusiasm to discover what treasures might lie inside, that I forced the lock with a letter opener. As the small drawer slid open, I found that it contained only a single document – the Harker letter.

“You cannot begin to understand my mixed emotions reading that letter, as I did, some five years after I was meant to. My initial reaction was one of disbelief, followed closely by one of anger – anger that Hilde could have chosen to hide the letter from me, a letter that explained so much about my family’s past and that connected me directly to my late father. My mother and I had received the official notification that my father had died in that fateful raid over England in 1916, along with a small package of his belongings recovered from the crash site. Reading Harker’s letter, I understood clearly the pain and loss that Franz must have felt as he lay dying in that English wood.

“I could not reconcile how and why Peter Coleman should go to such extraordinary lengths to honour his promise to a dying enemy airman. And remembering the second letter that I had received from Henshaw, I felt an enormous sense of loss and frustration. If only I had made contact with Harker at the time and tried to find out more about the nature of his correspondence! A hundred questions raced through my mind as I stared out from my attic window into the darkness – Could I still put in a claim for what was mine? How could I get to England?

“The chance discovery of the letter perplexed me for weeks, although my intentions became clearer by the day. I could not allow this to be an end to the matter and leave Harker in possession of all my family’s wealth. I did not challenge Harker’s claim to half of the money and knew that the man had acted with the utmost integrity, but felt I owed it to my father to pursue the matter. On 25th April, my birthday, I left Chateau Roche for good, armed with an excellent reference and all the money I possessed. Less than one week later, I stood on English soil, planning my journey to Trimingham Manor.

“Being a cautious man, I was keen to find out what I could about the family before introducing myself to the mysterious David Harker. It was not difficult to find Trimingham Manor, set as it was among hundreds of acres of rolling countryside. But I acted with some care, booking myself into a village inn close to the manor, posing as a hill walker. In the days that followed, I chatted to many local people, learning what I could.

“I was immediately disappointed, saddened and then frustrated to discover that Harker and his wife had died overseas in a mining accident. As a result, I was told that Harker’s six-year-old son, Gerald, had inherited the estate. Asked about the source of their wealth, local people knew only that the late David Harker had been a successful diamond merchant and a generous man who contributed much to support local charities. Beyond this, I could discover little else, although it was common knowledge that young Gerald was now being looked after at the manor by an appointed legal guardian. The executor also had instructions to recruit a permanent valet for the young man, who could tend to his needs when Gerald was at home from boarding school.

“Recognising that I needed to act, I decided to visit Trimingham Manor during my second week in England. Instinctively, I approached the tradesman’s entrance, enquiring at the door about vacancies for domestic staff. The housekeeper, Mrs Dawson, was very friendly and showed me into the kitchen, where I was asked to wait. When she returned a few minutes later, I was told that Barrington Henshaw, Gerald’s guardian, would be pleased to see me there and then. I was a little taken aback, recognising Henshaw’s name and wondering if he recollected my name from the letter he had sent me in 1923.

“I was led into what I now know to be Harker’s study, where Henshaw greeted me. I was disarmed instantly by the man’s relaxed demeanour, his friendly smile and the casual way he offered me a seat and a glass of whisky. I accepted the whisky and sat with him at a small marble table in the corner of the room. He explained that my timing was good, for the house was in need of a valet for Gerald Harker. Henshaw had taken on the role of guardian with some reluctance and wished only to fill the vacancy as quickly as possible, to enable him to get back to his primary role as solicitor in a local legal practice. He then asked me about my background and experience.

“Having given Henshaw an outline of my short career in France, I then produced my written reference from the Roche family, albeit written in French. Henshaw rose from his chair and paused briefly to glance at the letter, clearly unable to understand a word of it. He then extended his hand to me as I remained seated at the table and without any further hesitation, offered me the job, suggesting that I start immediately. No mention was made of my German upbringing.

“I had mixed emotions about taking on the job. It seemed that my name meant nothing to Henshaw. I imagined that if I were to confront the man with the facts about my claim, he might refute my story and have me removed from the house, effectively ending any chance I had to claim my inheritance. On the other hand, I was at least within the house, and close to all of the wealth that my family’s diamonds had helped to create. Until I could think of something better, I decided to accept the new role.

“Since being at Trimingham, I have been content to serve Gerald, acting as a mentor to the young Englishman. It is a relationship I have worked hard to foster, hoping that one day I might be able to confide in Gerald and explain all that had happened in the past. Unfortunately, subsequent events at the manor seem to have deprived me of any such opportunity.

“Yesterday, I had planned to take a long walk around the estate while Gerald was out for the day visiting the boarding school that had been selected for him. Barrington Henshaw was over for the day and I told him of my plans over breakfast. Having left him in the dining room, I returned to my room to collect a small rucksack and then headed out down the drive of the estate. However, within minutes I turned and walked back to the manor, realising that I had left my new ordnance survey map on the dining room table.

“When I re-entered the dining room, Henshaw was nowhere to be seen, but as I picked up the map, I could see across the hallway that the door to David Harker’s former study was ajar. Apart from the day of my interview, I had never known the door to be opened. It had been made clear to me that Henshaw kept possession of the only key to the study and that we were all prohibited from entering the room.

“Curious to know what the man was up to, I crept across to the door and peered in. There appeared to be little light in the room, as the curtains to the study were permanently drawn, but I could see Henshaw behind a large writing bureau, illuminated only by a small green desk lamp. Unaware that I was watching him, the solicitor then stood and turned to face a small painting on the wall behind the bureau. Deftly, he removed the painting and placed it on the desk. Set into the wall, I could now see a small safe, which Henshaw then proceeded to open using a key he had taken from the top drawer of the bureau. I then watched incredulously as he began to remove bundles of white banknotes from the safe, bending to place them into his briefcase which sat open to one side of the bureau.

“There was little doubt in my mind as to his intentions and I knew instantly that this was the fortune that David Harker had sought to preserve. I was also in no mood to let Henshaw make off with the money. Entering the room quickly, I was halfway across the study before he turned to face me. I stopped instantly. The initial look of surprise on his face quickly turned to one of conceit, and he smiled condescendingly as he summed up the position he now found himself in: ‘Caught like a rat in a trap, you might say, Herr Descartes.’

“He stepped out from behind the bureau and came across the room towards me. I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my body, but tried to keep my emotions hidden. ‘Perhaps you could explain what you think you are doing, helping yourself to David Harker’s money?’ said I.

“My challenge produced an unexpected response. ‘I am surprised you did not refer to the money as the Descartes Inheritance given your desire to reclaim what I imagine you believe to be yours.’ He smiled again, looking less confident than he had.

“I was determined to extract some sort of confession from him. ‘So, Harker let you into his little secret did he? And having seen your client pass away with no one coming forward to claim the inheritance, you thought you could have the money all to yourself, did you?’ I could see that my directness had hit a nerve.

“He was quick to bite back. ‘Yes, Harker consulted with me in 1921 and asked about the legalities surrounding the potential transfer of £40,000 to a young German he had never met. Having helped him to track you down, I was amazed that you did not come forward to claim the money. I then did all I could to persuade him against further correspondence with you on the matter, but he insisted on me writing a second letter. And still you did not make contact! I was, of course, sworn to secrecy, but when the Harkers died earlier this year, I realised that I had easy access to all of the money, as long as you did not appear.’ He raised his chin in defiance.

“I continued to press him. ‘You knew who I was, when I first arrived at Trimingham, didn’t you?’

“He scoffed at me. ‘Of course I knew. A young German arrives in the village asking questions about the family and then has the audacity to arrive at the manor enquiring about a job. Didn’t you think it strange that I took you on with such feeble credentials? I thought it better to have you here, working for me, until I could work out how best to get access to the money.’

“I could not resist taunting him. ‘Well, it seems I have thwarted your plans somewhat, Mr Henshaw. What do you plan to do now?’

“Once more, his response was not what I expected. ‘Well, I am more than happy to capitulate and let you have your £40,000, of course.’ I saw that the relaxed smile had returned to his face.

“I think it must have been his patronising manner that finally brought my anger. I grabbed at the lapels on his tweed jacket and began to push him back across the room. He continued to smile at me in his sickly manner, as I gave his hapless body one final push away from me. I then watched as he stumbled and fell backwards against the mantelpiece. I was incensed that he had tried to buy me off with what amounted to my own birthright and think that he could then take what was rightfully young Gerald’s. I had fallen prey to my emotions and realised all too late that my final push had killed the man. His body lay in the grate, the back of his head smashed in and a growing expanse of blood filling the hearth.

“I panicked in that moment, realising what I had done. My only hope was to try and escape and make it back to the continent. In those final moments, I counted out exactly £40,000 and left everything else as it was. I found Henshaw’s key and locked the study behind me, hoping that it would be some time before anyone might find the body. I then set off and walked some miles to the nearest railway station, where I caught a train to Poole and booked into a small guesthouse. Had your men not detained me yesterday, I may well have succeeded in making the passage across to France.”

Holmes opened his eyes and looked across at Descartes. He had been listening intently to every word of the valet’s story, and with the conclusion of the narrative, he was quick to interject. “Chief Inspector Wattisfield and his officers have a clear duty to ensure that this matter is brought to a conclusion in the most satisfactory manner, in accordance with the laws of this land. For what it is worth, I am convinced that you have told us all of the pertinent facts in this case, both clearly and honestly. I do not believe you are guilty of murder and would say that a strong case could be made for this to be viewed, more appropriately, as an accidental death. What say you, Watson?”

I nodded in agreement, adding that justice had to be served, but could see little point in pressing for a charge against Descartes in the circumstances. Henshaw’s manner and intentions had not been honourable and I imagined that none of the staff would shed much of a tear for his passing.

Wattisfield, of course, would not allow us to brow beat him into any sort of decision there and then. He busied himself with practicalities for the rest of the morning. Descartes was told that he would be kept under house arrest for the foreseeable future, in the charge of one of his original captors. Mr and Mrs Dawson were told what had happened at the same time as Gerald Harker, although the full story of the Descartes Inheritance was kept from them. After some telephone calls back to Scotland Yard, Wattisfield announced that a car would be arranged to take us back to Holmes’ farm. By the early afternoon, the two of us were once again seated around my colleague’s comfortable kitchen table enjoying a plateful of Holmes’ garden produce. An hour later, I bid Holmes farewell and made the journey back to London.

***

It was a good two months before I heard anything further about the Trimingham escapade. I was re-reading a favourite American Western novel in my small street-facing parlour, one chilly afternoon, when I heard a distinct rat-a-tat on the front door. I knew instantly that it was Holmes, his knock as familiar to me then as it had always been in our Baker Street days. I could not hide my pleasure on answering the door.

“Watson, your passion for Zane Grey is a new affectation on your part, but I am reassured to see that you have not lost your traditional love of snooker.” He swept into the hallway and continued his discourse, while removing his hat and heavy black overcoat. “I would venture that your trip to the theatre yesterday evening was marred by an argument with a taxi driver on the way home and in recent days you have received news that your application to become a member of the governing board of the Charing Cross Hospital has met with success. How am I doing so far?” he chimed.

I could but smile and, as ever, be humbled by Holmes’ proficiency in observing those tiny clues which pass unnoticed by so many of us, and which provided him with the vital intelligence to see so far into the personal affairs of other men. On this occasion, I had no appetite to query how he had managed to discern so much of my recent life in such a short space of time.

“I take it that you have news of the Descartes case?” said I.

“You are not wrong, dear friend. I have just come from Scotland Yard where I was engaged to decipher an intercepted communication from a Bolshevik sympathiser in Sydenham to his Soviet paymasters. In doing so, I appear to have foiled a plot to murder the Foreign Secretary. While there, I caught up with Chief Inspector Wattisfield, who had been told that I was in the building and sought me out. He had some good news.”

Holmes went on to say that the charges against Heinrich Descartes had been dropped, the lawyers acting for the Crown being persuaded that there was little evidence on which to secure a conviction for manslaughter. Descartes was free to leave the country, but had chosen to remain at Trimingham Manor and continue in his role as valet to Gerald Harker. The Dawsons were apparently delighted with the outcome.

“Very neat, Holmes,” I ventured, “but how does that leave the matter of the Descartes Inheritance?”

“That, I cannot tell you. Wattisfield has spoken to Descartes and returned the Harker letter to him. He also gave me a copy of it, which I thought you might like to keep for your records. He made it clear that any claim Descartes may wish to make upon the estate would be a civil matter, outside the interest or concern of the police. He left it with the German to decide how the matter might be pursued.”

“Then there is still some hope that this long-winded saga might yet be resolved and we will live to see Descartes inherit his birthright,” said I.

“There is every chance of a legal resolution, I would say, Watson. As to whether it will come in my lifetime, remains to be seen.”

His anomalous reply took me by surprise. But in that moment, I realised, for the first time in our long association, that despite his enduring professional reputation and undisputed genius, Holmes’ life was every bit as fragile and fleeting as my own.

As it turned out, Holmes’ prediction proved to be correct. Some years later, in the late summer of 1938 – two weeks beyond my eighty-sixth birthday – I chanced to read a small piece in The Times about the extraordinarily long-time a German-born valet had waited to inherit a legacy of £40,000. It appeared that when Gerald Harker had reached the age of eighteen, he had been persuaded that his valet – whom he had always treated more in the manner of an older brother than that of a servant – should receive the money, which had been held in trust by the Harker family since 1921. It gave no further details, but indicated that the two men had gone into partnership in a business venture to re-open a number of South African diamond mines.

It was gratifying to learn, finally, that the case had been resolved in such an agreeable fashion. And while it had been many years since I had had any call to document one of our innumerable adventures, I felt at that time that I owed it to Holmes to set down in writing The Trimingham Escapade. Unlike me, he had not lived long enough to learn of its conclusion, having passed away quietly a decade before on his lonely farm in Sussex. I dedicate this final tale to him that he may finally rest in peace.