Sherlock Holmes (11 page)

I frowned, and then glanced at the clock. I realised with horror that time had indeed run away with me, and that I risked making us late for our appointment. With some bluster I set down my pen and paper, and stood, stretching my tired back. “Well, I must say, Holmes – you still scrub up rather well,” I said, attempting to wipe a smear of ink from my fingers.

Holmes inclined his head and offered me a look of wry amusement. “It seems that scrubbing will indeed be necessary in your case, Watson,” he said.

I glanced at my hands. The ink had become deeply ingrained. “Well, give me five minutes and I’ll be with you,” I said. I hurried off to see to my ablutions, leaving Holmes laughing, loudly, in the sitting room.

Minutes later, and feeling a little out of breath, I found Holmes in the hallway, waiting to help me on with my light overcoat. “I’ve a carriage waiting,” he announced. “We shall be perfectly on time. Fear not, Watson.”

“Fear nothing!” I replied, a trifle brusquely, as we bundled out of the house and into the waiting hansom.

Dusk was settling over London, and the pleasantly sedate journey across town served as a reminder of all that had changed since the last time my friend and I had taken such a conveyance together. Motorcars were not yet in abundance, but were growing in popularity, thundering along the cobbled lanes and parping riotously at any pedestrians daring enough to get in their way.

All around us work was being carried out repairing buildings damaged in the bombing raids. London was changing –
times
were changing – and I had not yet decided whether there was a place in it for a curmudgeonly old soldier such as myself. Perhaps Holmes had been right after all, retiring to the country to escape the altering landscape, and perhaps with it, the terrible, creeping feeling of irrelevance that comes with age.

I hadn’t yet managed to shake the pronounced feelings of guilt that had worried away at me all day, following the death of Carter the previous night. I knew there was little I could have done for the man – he had insisted, after all, in waiting for us outside in the automobile – but I was nevertheless troubled by those fateful last words I had exchanged with him, warning him that he would “catch his death” out there in the cold. Today, those words felt like some unholy prophecy, a curse that I had inadvertently invoked when I’d left him out there, alone, to die.

Holmes, as perceptive as he ever was, seemed to know what was troubling me. “There are never the right words, are there, Watson, for times such as this?”

“What’s that, Holmes?” I said, feigning ignorance.

“The boy,” he replied. “The driver who died last night. It troubles you.”

I was silent for a moment, listening to the rattle of the hansom’s wheels on the cobbled road, the
clop clopping
of the horses’ hooves. “Does it not trouble
you
, Holmes? Surely you cannot mean to tell me you are not affected by the death of that boy.”

“This war,” he said, glancing away, peering out through the window at the buildings passing by, “it eats away at you. I can see it, Watson, like a parasite that has inveigled itself in your mind. You think of little else.” He turned to look at me, his eyes piercing. “You feel your loss keenly, and for that, I am truly sorry.”

I stared at Holmes, aghast. “Once again, you speak of Joseph,” I said. It was a rhetorical question, and Holmes did not deign to answer it. “How did you know?”

Holmes waved a dismissive hand. “The matter is elementary.”

I bristled. “I assure you, Holmes. The matter is
far
from elementary.”

“Forgive me, Watson. I meant no offence,” he said. His tone was regretful.

I sighed. “No. Of course you didn’t. It is I who should apologise to you, Holmes. I fear the subject is still a little raw. Thank you for your condolences.”

We lapsed into silence, rocking gently in the carriage as we trundled on towards Lord Foxton’s house.

* * *

Ravensthorpe House was a rambling old mansion on the outskirts of the city, set amongst sweeping acres of lush parkland. As we crawled up the gravel driveway in our carriage, I peered out of the window, spotting a herd of deer bounding gracefully across a grassy expanse in the distance. Beyond that, a large belt of dark, wild woodland appeared to stretch away for miles.

The driveway was bordered by an avenue of stately oak trees, and through their boughs I caught stuttering glimpses of an enormous lake to our left, its surface sparkling in the fading light. A rowing boat appeared like a tiny speck on the horizon, drifting on the glassy surface.

The whole place felt serene and timeless, as if it had remained this way, untouched, for centuries. It was a far cry from the drab streets of the city.

We pulled up in a large courtyard at the front of the building, and clambered down from the carriage. Three motorcars were parked in the shadow of the house – all of them sleek and black and near invisible in the dusk. These, I presumed, were the conveyances of the other guests. I hoped one of them might be Newbury himself. Time in his company always seemed to lift my mood.

Holmes paid our driver, and as the carriage trundled away, back toward the city, I stood for a moment and regarded the property that would play host to our investigations that evening.

It was most impressive: a manor in the Late Baroque style, likely dating from the beginning of the eighteenth century. The portico was reached by a set of stone steps and flanked by three columns on either side. Serried ranks of sash windows punctuated the tall, broad front of the building, and electric lights blazed within, welcoming and warm. The front door stood open, and the strains of a distant gramophone could be heard from within.

“Shall we?” said Holmes.

“Indeed,” I said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve attended anything quite so formal. I hope I can remember how to keep out of trouble.”

Holmes grinned. “Now, Watson,” he said, with mock derision. “Where would be the fun in that?”

He mounted the steps to the portico and rapped loudly on the door. It was opened by an elderly man, who had a shock of white hair, thinning but still full despite his advancing years, and whose dress marked him out as the butler. He had a kindly face, liver-spotted and creased from years of smiling. I surmised he must have been in his late seventies or early eighties.

“Good evening to you both, gentlemen,” said the butler, a little out of breath. “My name is Brown. May I ask – are you expected this evening?”

“I believe so,” I answered. “My name is Dr. John Watson, and this is my associate, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” I decided for once that Holmes could be
my
associate for the evening. “I understand a friend of ours, Sir Maurice Newbury, made arrangements for us to meet with Lord Foxton.”

“Very good, sir,” said Brown. “You are, indeed, expected. I’ve been asked to show you through as soon as you arrive. But first, allow me to take your coats.” He extended his hand, which trembled slightly with a mild palsy. I slipped off my overcoat and handed it to him. Holmes did the same.

While the old man fussed with our outerwear, shaking out imaginary creases, I took stock of our surroundings. Inside, the house was as magnificent as I’d imagined, although tastefully presented, and not at all ostentatious. Nevertheless, one couldn’t help but feel the presence of old money permeating the place – the portraits that hung on the walls in the hallway were just that little bit too faded to be recent fakes or reproductions, and much of the décor looked tarnished and original, as if it had been purchased when the house was first built and had been used by the family ever since.

Alarmingly, a large, stuffed polar bear, rearing up on its hind legs, stood at the bottom of the stairs, as if guarding against unwelcome guests. Both Holmes and I regarded it warily. The butler saw our expressions and smiled.

“Ah, that’s Bertie. He’s been a guest at the house for some years. Shot by the previous Lord Foxton on an expedition to the Arctic.”

“Fascinating,” said Holmes. To my surprise, he sounded genuinely interested.

Brown nodded. “If you’re ready, then, gentlemen, I’ll take you through.”

“Please do,” I said, grinning at Holmes.

Ponderously, Brown led us across the hallway, which narrowed on the right as it ran alongside the staircase. A passage led to a suite of adjoining rooms, from which we could hear the undulating chatter of male voices, accompanied by the clinking of glasses.

“The other guests have already arrived,” said Brown. “You’ll find them through there. I’m sure Sir Maurice will be anxious to introduce you.” So, Newbury
was
here. The night was certainly looking up. “Please do call if you find yourselves in need of anything.”

We thanked Brown and made our way into the drawing room, where a number of Foxton’s guests were gathered in a small cluster before the fireplace. Others lounged about on the sofas, deep in discussion, or stood by the window, sipping at drinks and making idle chitchat. I counted approximately ten other guests. Some of their faces seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite place any of them. Politicians, I imagined, whose likenesses I had seen in the newspapers.

“Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes!” I turned to see Newbury coming towards us, his hand extended in greeting, a warm smile upon his face. “I see you received my note. It’s most excellent to see you.”

“Likewise,” I said. I shook Newbury’s hand. He was looking well, if perhaps a little merry with the pre-dinner drinks.

“Over here,” he said, waving enthusiastically for us to join his little group by the window. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

We followed him over to where he’d evidently been conducting a conversation before we came in. There were two other men, who both greeted us warmly. One was a portly chap wearing a black formal suit and a dicky bow, with a neat side parting and a bushy black beard. He introduced himself as Percy Cranston, a solicitor.

The other was a short, thin fellow in his late sixties, clean-shaven, with greying hair and a dappling of liver spots around his left temple. He had a hawk-like nose, a deeply lined forehead, and sharp, interested eyes. In contrast to Cranston he was wearing a tweed suit with a relaxed, open collar. He took my hand and shook it graciously.

“This is Professor Archibald Angelchrist,” said Newbury. “A dear old friend. We’ve been through rather a lot together, over the years. Quite a raft of adventures.”

“It’s a delight to meet you, Dr. Watson,” said Angelchrist. His voice was gentle, his words exceptionally well enunciated. “I’ve enjoyed many of your written accounts of your investigations,” he said. “It’s quite a remarkable achievement, to have documented so many interesting cases.”

I laughed. “And those are just the ones Holmes has allowed me to publish,” I said. “I have boxes overflowing with more. Perhaps one day they’ll see the light of day.”

“Hmmm,” murmured Holmes, with a smile. He reached around me to grasp Angelchrist by the hand. “A pleasure,” he said. “I understand we have you to thank for seeing to this evening’s arrangements?”

“Hardly a trial,” said Angelchrist. “Foxton’s rather an admirer. In fact, I barely had to mention your name before there was talk of having you both over.”

“Well, all the same, we’re indebted to you,” I said.

“The pleasure is all mine,” said Angelchrist. “In truth, I’ve been anxious to meet you, Mr. Holmes. Your brother has told me a great deal about you.”

“You know Mycroft?” said Holmes, with a note of genuine surprise.

“For many years,” replied Angelchrist. “He’s been a good friend to me, and I still see him regularly.”

I, myself, had had only limited contact with Mycroft Holmes over the preceding decades, but the thought of him being a good friend to anyone seemed quite remarkable. He was an outwardly indolent fellow, who nevertheless had an intellect at least on a par with his brother’s, yet chose to apply it in a spectacularly different way, involving himself in the governance of the country at the very highest level.

“Now, now, gentlemen,” said Cranston, pushing forward and causing Angelchrist to step to one side to avoid his considerable bulk. “First things first. You both look as if you could do with a drink.” He waved his hand and I looked round to see a footman making a beeline for us, carrying a tray of drinks. Cranston handed Newbury his own glass and snatched two champagne flutes off the tray, passing them to Holmes and me. He dismissed the footman with a cursory “Thank you.” He grabbed his glass back from Newbury and clinked it against mine in a rather informal salutation, before draining it.

Newbury caught my eye and offered an apologetic shrug, and I chuckled, realising now why he might have seemed a little tipsy when we’d first arrived. I decided to sip at the drink in an effort to eke it out – the last thing I wanted was to find myself too inebriated to comprehend anything that might constitute a clue in our ongoing investigation.

“So… do you visit Ravensthorpe often, Mr. Cranston?” I ventured, unsure what else to say to this giant of a man.

“Percy,” said Cranston. “Please, call me Percy.” He glanced around, then placed his empty glass surreptitiously on the windowsill. “And no, this is my first time here.”

Angelchrist offered me a look that seemed to suggest it might well be Cranston’s last, too.

Cranston turned to Holmes, who had been watching the man’s buffoonery with a sphinx-like gaze.

“So you’re the famous sleuth, sir?” He chuckled at Holmes’s silent inclination of the head. “Do much sleuthing these days?”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “I have been retired for many years, Mr Cranston,” he replied. “Although one never truly rids oneself of certain habits.”

“What, peering through magnifying glasses and haring after criminals?” Cranston guffawed. “I’d have thought you and Dr. Watson here were a little long in the tooth for such business.”

Holmes smiled thinly. “While it is true that I do not engage in the more vigorous pursuits of my younger days, I was in fact referring to the habits of observation.” He steepled his long fingers under his aquiline nose. “Take your suit jacket for instance.”