The New Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes (17 page)

I cleared my throat before replying. I had not been idle during my friend’s absence, and I had managed to make a deduction or two of my own.

‘As it happens, I have fathomed why you expected his visit,’ I announced. ‘You had read a paragraph in the newspaper about the conundrum of the blood-stained clothing, and you inferred that the proximity of the find to Sir Greville’s estate would prompt him to consult you. Quite elementary.’

‘Very good, Watson!’ Holmes clapped loudly. I was not unaware of a tinge of mockery in his response to my sharpness, but his jovial mood was at least a welcome contrast to the world-weariness that had preceded Sir Greville’s arrival. ‘And the story about Meade?’

‘I fancy that, Sir Greville’s belief notwithstanding, the clothing found in the ditch did belong to the butler. If he wished to leave Oaklands for some nefarious purpose, he may well have wished to disguise himself as a tramp. And thus clad, what if some other vagabond set upon him?’

‘Killing Meade and tossing his garments into the ditch?’

‘It is a plausible theory,’ I said, nettled by the sardonic gleam in his eyes.

‘Perhaps,’ my friend said, in a tone that made it clear he thought otherwise. ‘Of course, your supposition fails to explain the note from Meade.’

‘A forgery,’ I announced, with more confidence than I felt.

‘A forgery by a vagabond who can imitate an elegant hand so as to deceive someone familiar with the author’s writing?’

‘Can you offer a better interpretation of the facts presented to us?’ I retorted.

‘My good fellow,’ Sherlock Holmes said with a heavy sigh, ‘have I not lectured you before on the folly of theorising without data? Evidence is what we seek, and evidence is precisely what I have been endeavouring to secure, with the assistance of those grubby young rascals who assist my enquiries every now and then.’

‘Really? And what is the Irregulars’ mission this afternoon?’

‘I have sent them to Camden Town, of course.’

‘Why Camden Town?’

Holmes uttered a low groan. ‘Watson, did the Lord not give you eyes to see? The post-mark on the envelope containing Meade’s note was from Camden Town.’

‘So you believe Meade to be alive and hiding out in London?’

‘I would not go so far as to say that,’ Holmes said, and with characteristic indifference to my protestations, he refused to say another word on the subject for the remainder of the evening.

***

Holmes and I rose early on the morrow, and ten o’clock saw our carriage draw up outside the imposing entrance to Oaklands Hall. Sir Greville Davidson’s ancestral home was a handsome yet rather stark Palladian mansion, nine bays wide and with a projecting portico. The surrounding estate was large and Holmes had insisted that our driver should follow a circuitous route passing by the ditch where the blood-stained garments had been discovered. It ran alongside a hawthorn hedge at the far extremity of the grounds of the Oaklands Hall. Through gaps in the hedge, I glimpsed swans gliding across a small lake fringed by willow trees.

From the shuttered windows of the west wing, I surmised that Sir Greville made little use of a substantial portion of the Hall. An air of melancholy hung about the place, as though the life was ebbing from it, as well as from its master.

In the absence of the butler, a housemaid answered the door and led us directly through a vast entrance hall with elaborately carved door-cases to an octagonal study with views across to the Old Hall and the lake. Sir Greville was seated in one of three leather armchairs; behind him stood a writing desk and walls lined with shelves of calf-bound tomes. Our host’s cheeks were pallid and even a man without my medical expertise was bound to observe that his health was deteriorating at an alarming rate. The disappearance of his favoured servant, less than a twelvemonth after the loss of his wife, was a blow he was finding impossible to withstand.

Struggling to his feet, he extended a hand in feeble greeting. ‘Have you any news?’ he asked.

Holmes shook his head. ‘As yet, there is nothing more that I can tell you, Sir Greville, but there are certain questions that I would like to put.’

‘Naturally.’  Our host waved to the maid. ‘Martha, please bring tea and refreshments for my guests.’

As the girl was about to leave the room, Holmes said to her, ‘Martha, a moment of your time, if I may.’

The maid stopped in her tracks, blushing furiously.

‘Sir?’

‘How did you find Meade, the butler?’

Martha’s shoulders seemed to be stiff with tension. She cast a quick glance at her employer, as if seeking permission to express an opinion. When he inclined his head a fraction, the girl breathed a little more easily, yet I fancied there was something equivocal in her expression. Some knowledge, perhaps, that she did not wish to share with Sir Greville.

‘He...he is a very decent sort, sir. Of course, he kept himself to himself. It was rare for us to converse on a social footing.’

‘You did not know him well?’ Holmes asked.

Again the maid seemed to choose her words with care. ‘No, I cannot claim that I knew Mr Meade well.’

She laid a curious emphasis on the name
Mr Meade
, but what – if anything – it signified, I could not tell, and within a moment she had scurried off to the kitchen, shutting the door behind her.

Sir Greville turned to Holmes. ‘You wished to interrogate me, Mr Holmes?’

My friend bowed. ‘A few questions only. First, could you provide me with a description of the butler?’

‘He is a relatively short and slender man. I should say no more than five feet six inches in height. He has a thick mop of jet black hair, and a fresh and pleasant face, quite boyish. I doubt whether he is thirty years old, young for a butler, of course. As I have mentioned, he is always immaculately turned out.’

Holmes nodded thoughtfully. ‘Second, did you by any chance retain the testimonial supplied to you by Miss Drake in respect of the butler?’

‘As a matter of fact, I did.’ Sir Greville hobbled to the writing desk, and his arthritic fingers fiddled awkwardly with a key before he managed to unlock one of the drawers. ‘Here, you will see how highly she spoke of him.’

Sherlock Holmes perused the reference, which was written in an spiky,sloping hand. Miss Emma Drake gave her address as Parkgate Hall in Wirral, and she had taken pains to heap praise upon the butler’s qualities and love of hard work, even mentioning his love of music, as if to emphasise that a man with taste could be relied upon. In conclusion, she had, in gushing terms worthy of a flowery novelette, expressed her dismay that a move to Europe would deprive her brother Vernon and herself of Meade’s services.

‘Most interesting,’ Holmes said warmly. I shot him a glance, as I saw nothing remarkable in the testimonial, and it was unlike my friend to utter platitudes, but his expression was imperturbable. ‘Miss Drake certainly did her utmost to ensure that her butler found a new position.’

‘Meade lived up to the high expectations she established,’ Sir Greville said. ‘I decided to make him my heir, Mr Holmes, because I felt that a man of his sensitivity and gifts deserved something better than a lifetime of service. I should say that, of course, I have ensured in my will that my obligations to my other servants, as well as to a number of charitable organisations to which my wife and I lent active support in happier times, are amply fulfilled.’

‘But the house and the residue of your estate go to the butler?’

‘Is that so shocking, Mr Holmes?’ the old man asked. ‘Simply because Meade is not a member of my social class?’

‘By no means. Far better that such an estate devolves to the industrious and deserving than some idle good-for-nothing. On that, we are bound to agree. But no doubt the news would cause quite a furore in the district. For a butler to inherit a fortune is sensational indeed.’

‘Certainly, and I was conscious that, after my passing, mischief-makers might suggest that Meade had somehow brought undue influence to bear upon me. With that in mind, I instructed my lawyer to take all possible precaution to ensure that no objection could properly be made to my testamentary dispositions, or to my proposal to adopt Meade as my son.’

‘And has he done so?’

‘He has in recent weeks been taking all necessary steps, Mr Holmes. Although at first he thought my decision lamentable and my judgment awry, over time I persuaded him that, with no close family of my own, I was acting with perfect propriety in bequeathing the bulk of my estate to a man who had done so much to ease the difficult last years of my wife and myself.’

‘Is anyone else aware of the contents of your will?’

‘I made no secret of my intentions. I meant to proceed with the formalities of adoption at the earliest possible moment.’

‘And what did Meade say to your plans?’

‘When I first broke the news to him – just a fortnight ago – he was astounded, as you might expect. Indeed, he sought repeatedly to dissuade me from my intended course. There could be no clearer sign of the fellow’s innate decency. He is selfless, Mr Holmes, and of how many people can that be said?’

My friend murmured assent. ‘It does seem extraordinary that a man should turn his back on such an inheritance.’

‘Precisely, Mr Holmes!’

‘Tell me, how did he occupy himself on the Sundays when he enjoyed time away from his duties? Did he entertain visitors, or go out to meet friends?’

‘He is not a social animal, Mr Holmes. Despite his pleasant personality, he is reserved in the company of others, and from remarks that he has let slip, I believe that he was orphaned at an early age, and has no living relatives. He does not drink, or indulge in any of the vices that afflict servants and other members of the lower class with such deplorable regularity. As a general rule, he stayed in his room each Sunday, perhaps going out for a stroll around the grounds if the weather was not inclement. Otherwise, he would play the piano. He found it easy to occupy himself in solitude. In addition to his love of music, he is an avid reader.’

‘Unusual for a butler,’ my friend commented.

‘Perhaps, but as I have endeavoured to explain, Meade is no ordinary butler.’

‘I entirely agree with you, Sir Greville.’

‘The over-riding question is,’ our host said, with a surge of passion that suggested Holmes’ nonchalant demeanour was not to his liking, ‘what has happened to him?’

Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his arm-chair and closed his eyes for a few moments. ‘There is in addition one further point on which I seek your clarification, Sir Greville.’

‘Anything, sir!’

‘Am I right in surmising that your butler’s  Christian name was Mark?’

The look of astonishment on the old man’s face was answer enough.

***

It was typical of Mr Sherlock Holmes that he refused to discuss the case at all for the entire duration of our journey back to London. As soon as we reached Baker Street, he absented himself, saying merely that the data now in my possession should at least enable me to build the foundations of a credible explanation for the butler’s disappearance.

I found myself as irked by my friend’s insouciant manner as I was baffled by Meade’s apparently calculated decision to flee from Oaklands Hall at the very moment when he seemed destined to inherit a fortune. I could not help thinking that there was more merit in my initial supposition – that Meade had the misfortune to fall victim to some itinerant rogue - than Holmes was willing to allow. Merely because a theory is based upon instinct rather than factual evidence, it is not necessarily mistaken.  There are bound to be occasions when reasoning precedes proof. Holmes had sneered at my speculation that the note from Camden Town might be a forgery, but I reminded myself that forgers are criminals, who  stoop to murder if the prize is sufficiently enticing. What if Meade had in his possession money or possessions of great value? Could Sir Greville be confident that nothing had been taken from the Hall? What if Meade was a fraudster and a thief who had met a deserved come-uppance? Warming to the idea, I told myself that the person described in Miss Drake’s testimonial sounded too good to be true. Suppose a confederate had forged
that
note, as part of a plan whereby Meade would worm his way into service at the Hall as a prelude to staging a robbery. If Meade learned that his master proposed to leave the estate to him, he might wish to abandon his co-conspirator, a decision that risked provoking a fatal attack.

By the time that Holmes returned, it was growing dark outside. I had armoured myself against his scorn, but as ever, he took me unawares. The chill air had brought a flush to his cheeks, and there was no gainsaying the jubilation in his voice as he hailed me.

‘Come, Watson! We leave at once for Chester.’

I stared at him. ‘This evening? Chester must be nearly two hundred miles away. What can you hope to achieve by such a journey?’

‘Tonight, nothing, but I have arranged accommodation for us at Sir Greville’s expense in the heart of that splendid Roman city. And tomorrow, Watson, I expect to establish incontrovertibly the truth behind the disappearance of the butler who showed such excellent taste in manifesting a fondness for Chopin.’

***

Nothing could persuade my friend to reveal what he had discovered, and I contented myself with enjoying the journey up to Cheshire, and the comforts afforded by the Grosvenor Hotel, a half-timbered black-and-white building in the mock-Tudor style favoured by architects of the green and pleasant northern county. A telegram awaited our arrival and Holmes perused it with considerable satisfaction.

‘Splendid, Watson! Another link in the chain!’

‘Dare I ask the cause of your satisfaction?’

‘My dear fellow, spare me that dog-in-the-manger expression! Feel free to see for yourself while I have a word with the head waiter before we eat.’

He tossed the cable to me, but I could make little sense of it. The message came from a property agent with an office in Liverpool’s Castle Street, and simply confirmed that Mr Vernon Drake had sold Parkgate Hall some two-and-a-half years ago.