Текст книги "A Farewell to Baker Street"

Автор книги: Mark Mower

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“There is little more to say about the Parisian trip beyond that. Mrs Sutherland failed to return to full health after that first week and we concluded that our best course of action would be to return home early. Over time, I put the whole affair out of my mind and it would only re-enter my thoughts when I glanced occasionally at the Notre-Dame watercolour that graced the wall of my parents’ conservatory.

“When I was twenty-five, I met and fell in love with Sir Ashley Aston-Cowper, a distinguished medical man, some years older than me. We were not to be blessed with children and despite his status as a surgeon he suffered with persistent heart problems, exacerbated by his extravagant lifestyle and love of fine wine and rich food. Ours was a happy marriage for the most part, although we had distinctly different circles of friends with whom we spent time, when not together. My preference was to visit my parents and sisters. Sir Ashley liked to mix with the more elite and wealthy members of his various clubs, societies and medical institutions. Occasionally, he would invite some of these to stay for the weekend in the exterior lodge close to the entrance of our Cheddington Park home. It was during this time that I first became acquainted with Roger Morton, the youngest son of the Duke of Buckland.

“From the outset, I disliked the man intensely. He was close to my own age, and younger than most of the group that my husband entertained on a regular basis. In short, he was brash, uncouth and self-obsessed. But what I particularly detested, were his barely concealed attempts to flirt with me in the presence of my husband. Sir Ashley seemed not to notice and clearly saw something in the man that eluded me. Morton lived off the not insignificant allowance that he received from his father, but maintained that he was an art dealer. And it was in this capacity, that he was to bring the past back to haunt me.

“Sir Ashley had invited a dozen guests over one weekend in February last year. Morton had arrived ahead of the others and seemed particularly pleased with himself, saying – out of earshot of my husband – that he had a surprise for me. He explained that the previous week he had purchased a job lot of paintings and ephemera from a major dealer in Brussels. This had included a number of works by British artists, including ‘Gerald Stanhope’. He paused, allowing the name to hang in the air and watching for my reaction. I froze instantly, in the dawning realisation of what he had just said, and felt a cold chill descend through my body. ‘So, it is you in the painting – I guessed as much!’ he whispered with a smirk, before following one of our servants who was carrying Morton’s bags and cases in through the door of the lodge.

“I recognised that Morton had the upper hand and the future of my marriage, if not my standing in society generally, would indeed be precarious if he were to reveal the painting to anyone. That Friday evening he seemed content to let the matter rest, casting me lascivious looks every time our eyes met. And it was only before lunchtime the following day that his intentions became clear. Catching me in the grounds of the house as I strolled through my favourite rose garden, Morton took me by the arm and announced that he wanted me as his mistress. He then added that if I were to refuse, he would reveal the painting to our guests that very evening. He left me to think it over.

“In that instant, I determined that I would not be held to ransom by the scoundrel and realised one immediate fact. Namely, that in threatening me, he had clearly brought the canvas with him. If I could find a way to get to the picture and destroy it, my future might yet be saved. As luck would have it, Sir Ashley had provided me with a perfect opportunity to put my plan into action. Over lunch, he announced that all of the guests were invited to take part in a bridge tournament in the main house, a proposal that all agreed to readily.

“That afternoon, feigning a headache, I left our guests to their card playing and headed for the kitchen, where I took from one of the cutlery drawers a small, sharpened fruit knife, which I hoped would be sufficient to cut the canvas from its frame. I then took a side door from the house, out of sight of the servants, and walked the short distance down the drive to the lodge. With all of the guests being entertained at the main house, I knew that the lodge would be deserted.

“When I entered Morton’s room, I could see no obvious place in which he could have hidden the painting. All of the bags and cases he had brought with him were empty, their original contents having been placed in the drawers and wardrobe of the bedroom. That left only the small loft space above the bed. I retrieved a set of wooden steps from an adjoining room and climbed until I was able to push open the loft door and look inside. To my frustration, I could see nothing in the darkness and had to come back down the ladder to find a hurricane lantern in a store cupboard, which I lit to take back up with me. My second attempt met with success as I could now see, some five feet from my grasp, a wrapped package which I guessed to be the canvas. But as I went to climb further up the ladder and into the loft, I felt a rough tug on my left ankle and heard Morton shout loudly for me to come down. Startled, I lost control of the lantern and it fell heavily, the glass globe breaking and igniting the paraffin which spilled out from the lamp.

“Morton dragged me bodily from the ladder and pushed me aside before climbing on the steps and trying to ascend into the loft. I seized the opportunity and ran from the room as he was driven back by the flames now engulfing the tinder dry rafters of the roof space. When I managed to get back to the safety of the house, I raised the alarm and soon both servants and guests were running to and from the lodge with buckets of water in a futile attempt to extinguish the inferno.

“Sir Ashley knew that at the time of the fire only Morton and I had been at the lodge. Morton had dropped out of the card game early on, saying that he needed to retrieve something from the lodge. Having raced back to the house to raise the alarm, it was obvious that I had not been in my room suffering with a headache. That evening, with the lodge now completely devastated by the fire, my husband called both Morton and I to his study and asked for an explanation. My initial fear was that our guest would now take his revenge by telling Sir Ashley all about the painting, which had also been destroyed. However, he went one step further in his vengeance, claiming that we had been having a secret affair for months and I had talked about the prospect of marriage once Sir Ashley had succumbed to the inevitable heart disease with which he was afflicted.

“I need hardly tell you, Mr Holmes, that what Morton did that evening was far worse than revealing the existence of a scandalous painting. When Sir Ashley looked at me for some challenge or corroboration of the story, I fell mute – unable to defend myself or tell him what had really gone on. Morton was told in no uncertain terms to leave Cheddington Park immediately and to never show his face in front of Sir Ashley again. I was instructed that while we would give outsiders and household staff the impression that our marriage was solid we would, from that moment on, cease to be husband and wife. In the event, there was no need for any such pretence. The shock of the alleged affair was more than my husband’s heart could take and during the night he suffered a fatal attack.

“Of course, with a house full of well-connected guests whose weekend had been cut short by the drama of what had gone on, it did not take long for the rumours to start circulating. A mysterious fire, the unexpected death of a Knight and talk that his Lady wife had been having an affair were bound to have a resonance. Some of Sir Ashley’s friends and colleagues began to shun me, but on the whole most were supportive in my hour of need. Most significantly, Roger Morton seemed to have disappeared and I was told later by one of our circle that he had gone to New York to work for an auction house.

“The fact that the provisions of Sir Ashley’s will remained unchanged and I was left both Cheddington Park and an annual income helped to persuade some doubters that there had been no obvious rift between the two of us. But I felt distinctly uncomfortable about the bequest and decided to cease using the title ‘Lady Aston-Cowper’. It was a small gesture, but it was my way of showing that I did not want to dishonour the memory of my dear husband.

“After some months, my life began to return to some semblance of normality, helped by the unerring support of my family. And, most recently, I met Christopher, who has proved to be the most loyal and compassionate man I have ever known. As we became closer, I took the decision to share with him the full story of what the newspapers had called the Cheddington Park Scandal.”

Our guest paused briefly, and Holmes – who had to that point given every impression of being fast asleep – opened his eyes quizzically, and prompted our guest: “Please, Mrs Aston-Cowper, I think you were about to bring us up to date and reveal the telegram you received this morning from Roger Morton threatening to make public the photograph taken of you by Gerald Stanhope.”

The lady swallowed heavily. “Yes, indeed, Mr Holmes, but I am again in awe of your deductive capabilities. I made no mention of the telegram...”

“No. But you did not challenge me when I put it to you earlier that something had happened very recently. And when we entered the room it was clear that you had been re-reading something which had once again brought you to tears. For reasons of vanity, you were quick to dispense with the pince-nez which you slid swiftly into your chatelaine bag. The telegram did not fare so well – it still sits beside you, now looking rather crumpled, but clearly displaying today’s date. As for the photograph, it struck me from your account that if Morton had managed to purchase Stanhope’s original oil painting – and had been so sure that you were the model in it – it was also extremely likely that he had acquired the accompanying photograph. In my experience, blackmailers relish a solid back-up plan.”

“Simply astonishing!” she uttered, a broad smile now covering her face. “So, vanity was my undoing, yet again. And you are quite correct about the content of the telegram. I had not heard one word from Roger Morton since the night of the fire and believed that he had no further hold on me with the destruction of the canvas. The telegram came as a complete shock.”

“It would be helpful to see the precise wording of the message,” said Holmes.

She rose from her chair and passed the telegram to my colleague. He looked it over for some minutes and then read aloud: ‘More to come on Cheddington scandal…a photograph... will prevent marriage = M.’ Very interesting – it seems that Mr Morton is determined to scupper your wedding plans, Mrs Aston-Cowper, and is prepared to go to great lengths to do so. That recent announcement in The Times has clearly been picked up by our man in America who now plans to travel back to England to sow the seeds of your undoing.”

I then interposed. “Why do you say that, Holmes?”

“Well, he has no way of knowing that Mrs Aston-Cowper has already told your nephew about the canvas and photograph so is labouring under the delusion that his disclosure of the latter would prevent the wedding. That said, if the photograph were to fall into the wrong hands, it could still be tremendously damaging to both their reputations. And yet, Morton clings to some hope that he can negotiate a deal. If that were not the case, he would already have exposed the photograph to the American press, who would no doubt relish a story about the fall from grace of a British Lady. The telegram was sent from New York yesterday evening by the Western Union Telegraph Company. It seems to me that Morton despatched it before boarding a passenger liner for the transatlantic passage to Liverpool.”

With that, he leapt from his seat and began to rummage through a pile of loose folders in a corner of the room. Mrs Aston-Cowper looked on with some consternation. When he returned to his seat a minute or two later, Holmes was waving a bright-coloured pamphlet.

“Here it is – a brochure for the British and North American Royal Mail Steam-Packet Company. The passenger liner Scotia was due to set off yesterday for the eastbound crossing. This is the oceangoing steamer that won the Blue Riband for the westbound passage three years ago. The voyage is estimated to take between ten and fourteen days, which should mean that Roger Morton will be docking at Liverpool in early September.”

Mrs Aston-Cowper continued to look confused. “And what happens then?”

“Why, it should be a simple matter of greeting him at the port and persuading him to hand over the photograph,” Holmes retorted. “That is a task you can leave to the inestimable talents of Dr Watson here.”

I was flattered by Holmes faith in me, but not a little disturbed at the thought that the social standing of both my nephew and his bride to be might depend on my success in completing the mission. Mrs Aston-Cowper seemed delighted by the plan, rising from her chair to come and shake me warmly by the hand, before offering some words of encouragement.

“Doctor, I will forever be in your debt if you can manage to resolve this issue. It is more than I could have hoped for in coming here today, when my principal objective was to persuade you to attend a wedding! And I will be eternally grateful for the professional assistance you have offered, Mr Holmes. You have a rare set of talents. I must now take my leave. And while I am loath to keep anything from Christopher – as I hinted at earlier – I do believe it would be better for all concerned, if nothing more was said about our meeting today.”

“That would be best for us all,” agreed Holmes, with a mischievous smile. “Without any disrespect to you, Mrs Aston-Cowper, I would not wish it to be known by my colleagues at Scotland Yard that I am now providing guidance on marital matters.”

Our client left us in good humour and I looked forward to meeting her again at the wedding that October. For the next week or so, I sought regular updates from the steamship company on the likely progress of the Scotia and made plans to travel up to the Port of Liverpool to greet the arrival of the passenger liner. When it berthed at the Albert Dock on Monday, 3rd September, I was more than prepared for the encounter with Roger Morton.

He emerged from the dock office in the company of a porter who was pulling a hand trolley on which sat a large cabin trunk. Morton was well over six-feet tall and solidly built. He was dressed in a knee-length tweed frock coat, a white shirt and wide dark-red necktie. On his head sat a tall top hat. He looked every part the English aristocrat.

As I stepped forward, he pre-empted my challenge. “Dr Watson, I take it? I understand that you are here to collect this from me,” said he, thrusting a large envelope into my hand. There was no warmth in his tone and his dark brown eyes fixed on mine with a degree of menace. Not to be intimidated, I continued to hold his stare and then turned my attention to the envelope. As I opened it, I could see that it contained the salacious image of the young Virginia Melrose.

“Our business is concluded then, Mr Morton,” I said, turning briskly and walking away to be bemused looks of the porter.

It was clear that Morton felt he had to have the last word. “For what it’s worth, you can tell her that she was never a great beauty!” His words echoed around the dock office. I carried on walking.

When I arrived back at Baker Street a couple of days later, Holmes was waiting for me with a stiff glass of brandy. “Warm yourself up with this, Watson, it is unseasonably cold today.”

I could not resist chiding him for the unnecessary display. “Holmes, I have known you too long to be fooled by any of this. You knew full well that Morton could be persuaded to hand over the letter. When I met him at the docks he already knew who is was. So, how did you do it?”

Holmes smirked, knowing that I was more relieved than upset by his intervention. “My dear fellow, I could not send you into battle without providing you with reinforcements. A quick visit to my brother Mycroft was all that was required. Having heard the story, he travelled up to Liverpool ahead of you and arranged to be taken out by tug to the Scotia as the liner began its entry to the port. When he tracked Morton down on board the ship, he made it clear that if the rogue did not hand the photograph to you at the dockside, both he and his father, the Duke of Buckland, would be blackballed in every gentleman’s club in London. Furthermore, the Duke’s loans on the current refurbishment of his Highland estates would be called in, rendering the family bankrupt. I suspect that was sufficient to seal the matter.”

I was warmed by the subterfuge. “Then that is an end to the matter, Holmes. A job well done – I have destroyed the photograph, Mrs Aston-Cowper can rest easy, and we can all enjoy the wedding. Let’s drink to that!”

2. The Curious Matter of the Missing Pearmain

“Splendid!” exclaimed Holmes suddenly, looking over a piece that had caught his eye in the Daily Telegraph. It was a chilly, yet bright, early morning in December 1894. My colleague had asked me to call on him first thing, as he said he had a new case that required my assistance. On arriving at Baker Street, I had been offered one of Mrs Hudson’s marvellous cooked breakfasts and when seated upstairs beside my colleague, had eagerly partaken of the thickly-sliced bacon, fried egg, tomatoes and kedgeree that had been presented to me. In contrast, Holmes had contented himself with a single piece of toast and a strong black coffee and had remained largely uncommunicative beyond his initial greeting when I first entered the room.

He was dressed in a long crimson dressing gown, under which I could see that he was already prepared for a formal engagement of some kind. Beneath the open silk gown he was wearing some sharply-pleated grey pinstripe trousers, white cloth spats, a starched dress shirt and a black bow-tie. I had already noted the black frock-coat which Mrs Hudson had placed on a hanger to his left and the top hat which Holmes had positioned, somewhat incongruously, on the head of a plaster death mask, which sat in pride of place on the mantelpiece.

“What is ‘splendid’, Holmes?” I queried, with obvious irritation, having waited for further words or some suitable explanation which had not been forthcoming.

Holmes seemed impervious to my agitation. “It seems that Inspector Lestrade has a rare murder mystery for us to consider, Watson. I apologise for not having explained matters more fully in my earlier telegram, but I need you to meet with the good inspector when he arrives here at nine o’clock this morning. This piece in the Daily Telegraph gives us some indication of the puzzle which Lestrade is faced with and the reason he is so keen to seek my assistance.”

I resisted the temptation to ask him about the newspaper article and went straight to the crux of the matter: “So, you’ve called me here to meet with Lestrade at the appointed time, so that you are free to swan off to some prior engagement. Well, I must say, Holmes, I find this most irregular. While my medical practice is quiet at the present time, you know that I am not without commitments, engagements and responsibilities of my own.”

Holmes seemed genuinely stunned by my rebuke and a look of concern crept over his pallid-white features. “My dear Watson, it seems I have been very thoughtless in taking your assistance for granted and presuming that you would be able to stand in for me. I meant no offence, but believe this will be an affair worthy of our attention, since it will be the first time that we have heard from Lestrade since April of this year, when we were involved in what you described, very commendably, in your published accounts as The Adventure of the Empty House.”

Ever susceptible to my colleague’s effortless flattery, I was determined to hold out a while longer. “That’s all well and good, Holmes, but you haven’t even told me what this other appointment is and why you cannot meet with Lestrade yourself.”

“It is a small distraction, I assure you. I would much rather meet with our police colleague and had planned to do so when I responded to his request yesterday evening. However, about nine o’clock last night, I received a hasty and unexpected visit from my brother Mycroft. He informed me, rather belatedly, that I am required to attend a lunch appointment at the Danish Embassy today, at which I will be awarded the Order of the Dannebrog. I was told about the honour some weeks ago and had asked for it to be posted to me. Mycroft explained that I was likely to cause offence – and something of a diplomatic incident – if I continued along that path and persuaded me instead to accept the award in good faith from the King of Denmark, Christian IX, who is visiting London this week.”

I could scarcely believe that Holmes had not thought to mention this news earlier and expressed my astonishment at his reticence. He explained that Danish protocol had prevented him from talking about the matter until the award had been received. “In any case,” he added, “The honour was given for my very inconspicuous assistance in saving his youngest son, Valdemar, from some risky investment schemes which contributed to the collapse of a major commercial bank in Canada – an entanglement which would have resulted in considerable public scrutiny and financial ruin for the prince. The King has demanded that both the affair, and my role in resolving it, should be kept from the public gaze.”

“Understood, Holmes, but you know that I could have been relied upon to be discreet. There was no need to act so furtively.”

“I realise that now, but my primary concern was to ensure that Lestrade was not put off in coming to us with his case – he trusts and respects you as much as he does me. I need hardly tell you, that I would rather be presented with a single, intangible mental challenge to flatter and sustain my ego, than I would a dozen knighthoods. I seek stimulation not adulation.”

Realising this to be the case and having no wish to continue to chastise my colleague, I turned my attention to the newspaper and asked Holmes to relay what had been printed in the Daily Telegraph. Having lit his favourite churchwarden and taken two or three puffs of the pipe, he read out the news item:

Mysterious Death at Ravensmere Towers

Detectives from Scotland Yard were called yesterday afternoon to the prestigious new office building of Ravensmere Towers near Hyde Park, following a report of a fatal shooting.

While details remain sketchy, our chief reporter understands that the incident is being treated as a potential case of murder, since no firearm was found near the body. The victim of the shooting was a Mr Edward J Flanagan, an Irish national, who occupied the first floor office of Ravensmere Towers, where he ran a successful business exporting English porcelain to the United States.

Detectives admit to being baffled by the circumstances of the death. The building is accessible only from the ground floor, the sealed entrance to which is controlled by a vigilant concierge. He has stated categorically that beyond those few personnel occupying the plush offices, no one entered or left the building during the time the shooting is believed to have taken place. However, when the Scotland Yard men, led by the very capable Inspector Lestrade, conducted a thorough search of the building, they were unable to find the illusive gunman.

The only other paying tenants of Ravensmere Towers are three brothers in their forties, who operate a depository for rare books on the second floor. They claim to have heard a single, very audible shot at around eleven o’clock yesterday morning. Some moments after this, Mr Chester Godbold – the eldest of the trio – ventured out of their rooms in order to determine the source of the noise. Having done so, he claims to have caught a glimpse of a man holding a revolver, running up the stairs to the third floor. The man was said to be wearing a heavy grey overcoat and a large tweed hat which covered his head and the sides of his face and prevented Mr Godbold from seeing more of his features.

Inspector Lestrade was reluctant to say any more about the supposed crime at this juncture.

Readers may remember that Ravensmere Towers was opened at the start of this year to some fanfare. It is said to be one of the most impressive modern buildings in the capital. Its offices are fully-equipped with electric lighting and power and all upper floors are accessible via a hydraulic-powered lift, or elevator, in addition to a traditional stairwell. The owner and property developer, Mr Archibald Cartwright, occupies the third floor of the building, and was said to be ‘deeply saddened’ by the events and has pledged to do all he can to assist the police in bringing to justice the man responsible for the shooting.

“Well, what do you make of it, Watson?” queried Holmes, placing the open newspaper on the table in front of him.

“Quite remarkable. Lestrade and his men were unable to find any lone gunman, so unless the concierge is mistaken – or had, indeed, carried out the shooting himself – the assailant must have been one of those within the building at the time.”

“A perfect summary, my friend. We will certainly need to ascertain whether the concierge can be trusted and whether he could have been mistaken about the apparent security of the building. Beyond that, it will be imperative to find out three things: firstly, some further information about the victim, this Mr Flanagan; secondly, full intelligence on the other occupants of the building and, crucially, where each was at the time of the shooting; and lastly, precise details of the layout and accessibility of the ground and five upper floors of Ravensmere Towers.”

A large halo of grey smoke was caught momentarily in the sunlight that had begun to stream in through the large window of the study. Holmes stood and placed the churchwarden on the mantelpiece and lifted the top hat from the death mask, before adding: “Not an insubstantial task, I grant you, but one that I am confident you can achieve during my absence today.”

Within a few minutes he was fully dressed and ready to depart. A prompt ring on the doorbell some moments later indicated that his carriage had arrived and with a cheery smile and a snappy wave of the hand, Holmes was off down the stairs for his appointment at the embassy. I watched from the window as the Hansom cab departed and then returned to my chair to prepare a long list of questions for Inspector Lestrade.

***

The doughty inspector arrived some fifty minutes later and was visibly dejected and decidedly unimpressed when told that Holmes had departed for a hastily arranged appointment with a European royal. His pinched and drawn features and deep, hollow-set eyes took on a most unusual expression as he pondered how he might proceed in the light of the news. He then sat in the armchair that Holmes had vacated earlier.

“Well, I suppose I can convey to you the key facts as we know them, Dr Watson. You are familiar with Mr Holmes’ methods I dare say, so you can prompt me if I fail to explain all of the finer details.” He then glanced across at the Daily Telegraph which still sat on the table. “I see that you have already read a little of the case.”

“Yes indeed, Inspector, but I would prefer to hear your first-hand account of what you discovered at Ravensmere Towers. Holmes was most insistent that I obtain all of the relevant particulars, so that he may assist you when he returns to Baker Street later this afternoon.”

Lestrade’s demeanour was transformed instantly on hearing this. His face brightened and he at once sat upright in the chair and started to recount what had occurred the previous day. For my part, I began to take copious notes of everything the inspector presented.

“Well, we arrived at Ravensmere Towers close to midday – my good self and two uniformed constables. The telegram requesting our assistance had been sent by the secretary of Archibald Cartwright, the owner of the building. He greeted us at the door and introduced us to the concierge, James Mount, who then escorted us around the building for the duration of our stay. I insisted that he lock the entrance at that point, to allow no one to leave the building.”

“And could you describe the layout of the ground floor, Inspector?”

“Fairly straightforward. The main entrance consists of two large doors. Anyone wishing to enter Ravensmere Towers must pull a cord outside the building to ring a large internal bell. They are then afforded an entrance by Mr Mount. He has a reception desk and small office just inside the doors with a window looking out onto the street. In that way, he is able to view any entrants before admitting them. During the day, one of the doors is kept on a latch. It is possible to open the latch from the inside and get out of the building, but it cannot be opened from the outside. During the night, both doors are securely locked with keys held by the concierge, who is always the last to leave the building.

“The main part of the space is taken up with two washrooms which have been installed for all of the office workers – one for the ladies and the other for the gentlemen of the building. They contain toilet facilities and cloakrooms. The windows to these are covered in wrought-iron bars preventing any exit from the building. Outside of the washrooms, towards the centre of the lobby, is the main stairwell, which ascends to the five upper floors. At the heart of this, is the building’s lift, or elevator, system. And very impressive it is too, Dr Watson.”