Sherlock Holmes (15 page)

I glanced at Holmes. If he’d heard my brief tirade he showed no sign of it. He was utterly absorbed in his observation of the house and street.

“Holmes,” I said, “Holmes?”

“Look, Watson,” he said, ignoring me and pointing toward the other end of the street. A lone figure was walking in our direction, on the other side of the road. He was a dark-haired man, tall and thin and wearing a long raincoat, the collar of which was turned up, obscuring much of his lower face. He walked with a slight stoop.

Holmes and I waited in silence, watching as the man drew steadily closer. The man seemed familiar. I squinted, attempting to discern his features – and then it struck me. I
had
seen him before. “Is that…?” I whispered.

“Yes, Watson,” replied Holmes, the words barely audible on his breath. “It’s Seaton Underwood.”

“Well, I’ll be,” I muttered.

Underwood stopped at the gate to Baxter’s house and, parroting Baxter’s earlier ritual, glanced in both directions along the street before opening the gate and walking to the front door. He rapped loudly three times and stood back, stamping his feet on the bottom step.

A few moments later the door opened, and an elderly woman – whom I took to be Baxter’s housekeeper – opened the door and permitted him entry.

“Well,” I said, straightening my back, “that’s an unexpected development. Proof positive that there’s a connection between the two men, just as you suggested. I wonder what the devil they’re up to?”

“What the devil indeed,” said Holmes, with a sly look.

“What now?” I asked, hopeful that, with this new development, Holmes had all he needed to cogitate on our next course of action, preferably from the comfort of my armchair back in Ealing.

“I have a suspicion, Watson, that it won’t be long until they’re on the move,” said Holmes. “If they leave together, we must follow them and discover their destination. It could be vital.”

“Very well,” I said, containing a sigh. I could see Holmes was onto something, and I admit, I was as anxious now to see the matter through as he was.

Around twenty minutes later, just as I was beginning to grow impatient, two figures emerged from the house. They both had their collars turned up, but it was easy enough to see that it was Baxter and Underwood, leaving together just as Holmes had anticipated they might.

Beside me, Holmes stirred. I glanced at him, and he put a finger to his lips. He crept along the length of the garden hedge, peering over the top at the two figures as they exchanged a few indecipherable words and set off, taking a right turn at the bottom of Baxter’s garden path.

We waited a few moments and started after them, trailing at a reasonable distance. We kept to what shadows there were on a summer’s evening, hanging back from our quarry.

The two men walked side by side, deep in conversation, but they talked in hushed tones, and aside from the occasional burst of laughter, I was unable to hear any of what passed between them.

We followed them for about a mile through the quiet streets, which grew steadily busier the closer we came to Knightsbridge. Most of the men we passed were office workers, slowly drifting home from their jobs in the City, wearing hassled expressions and lugging briefcases under their arms. The occasional automobile or carriage rumbled by, but Baxter and Underwood paid them no heed. They were tracing a familiar route, I realised, comfortable in each other’s company and falling into a regular, steady rhythm. They seemed unconcerned that anyone might be following them. All of this, I knew, was a sure sign that they had walked these streets together many times before.

Up ahead, Baxter and Underwood turned a corner and Holmes waved for me to hurry. We dashed after them, rushing along the side of a large hotel. I was fearful that we might lose them in the street, or that they might take an unseen turn into an alleyway or building.

As it transpired, the two men were still within view when I reached the corner, and what was more, were standing outside a familiar building: the entrance to Tidwell Bank.

Baxter was fishing in his pocket for a ring of keys, which he withdrew a moment later. He selected one and opened the front door and entered, beckoning Underwood inside. He then proceeded to lock the door behind him.

Holmes waited for a moment, and then beckoned me on. We strolled hurriedly past the building, glancing in through the barred windows as we walked. Inside the bank the lights remained off, and there was no sign of either Baxter or Underwood.

We paused at the other end of the street, huddling into a brief conference.

“What the devil are they doing visiting the bank at this hour?” I said.

Holmes consulted his pocket watch. He showed me the dial. It was approaching seven o’clock. “I have a suspicion, Watson, that the answer to that question will provide the insight we need to get to the bottom of what truly happened to Herbert Grange.”

“Then we should go after them?” I ventured. “Knock on the door until Baxter lets us in?”

Holmes shook his head. “We are unprepared for such a confrontation. No, I believe further investigation is required. Tomorrow, if you are willing, you might return to Ravensthorpe House and put a question to Lord Foxton, regarding Underwood’s relationship to Baxter.”

“Of course,” I said. “And you, Holmes? Will you not come with me?”

Holmes shook his head. “Indeed not, Watson. I shall continue my observations of Baxter.”

“Very well,” I said.

“Good man, Watson,” said Holmes. “Now, come. Let us take our leave. I’d wager there are others expected at the bank this evening, and it would not do for us to be seen. I do not wish to show our hand too early.”

“That’s the best idea you’ve had all night, Holmes,” I replied, with feeling.

It felt a trifle strange returning to Ravensthorpe House so soon after my previous visit. Holmes, however, had insisted that I come alone. In his wisdom, he felt that Lord Foxton might be more disposed to elaborate on the relationship between Underwood and Baxter if the questions were put to him by – as Holmes put it – “a man of my mild disposition”.

In truth, I suspected that Holmes was simply more concerned with the other plans that he had hinted at the previous evening. Nevertheless, this was not a new position in which I found myself – heading out alone on a mission to gather intelligence for Holmes – and the distraction was a welcome one.

I called ahead to ensure that Foxton would be able to see me that morning, and the old man, Brown, was most accommodating, explaining that if I was sure to call in the morning, rather than the afternoon, I should find Foxton available and happy to speak with me.

It was, of course, my intention also to speak again with Seaton Underwood. Holmes had tasked me with discovering whether Underwood would admit to his evening rendezvous with Baxter, or would attempt to cover it up and provide himself with an alibi.

Upon the approach, the house looked just as splendid as it had the other night. However, as I drew closer, I began to realise my initial impressions had perhaps been a little coloured by the beautiful surroundings.

In the full light of day it was clear the building was more dilapidated than it had at first appeared. A number of the roof tiles were missing and a carpet of thick, green moss was making its presence felt, slowly subsuming the east wing like a hungry parasite. Mildew stained many of the upper windows in that part of the house, and it appeared largely uncared for and disused. Clearly, Foxton, Underwood and their servants now inhabited only a small part of the sprawling property.

Once, I would have given my eyeteeth to live in such splendour, regardless of the apparent disrepair. Now, though, I craved a more frugal existence. I had no need for such lavishness, nor for the associated difficulties it would bring. In all my years accompanying Holmes on his investigations, I had learned that such grand estates always came at a terrible price – the envy of others. Time and again, I had seen people do terrible things to one another for the slightest glimpse of a fortune.

My conveyance stuttered to a halt. Once again I had come via horse and carriage, and as I dropped down from the box, my feet crunching in the gravel, I saw Brown standing in the doorway.

I paid the driver and told him to park up and wait for me, then trudged up to the house. Brown greeted me in the portico. “Good morning, Dr., ah…”

“Watson,” I said. “Dr. John Watson. We spoke on the telephone.”

“Quite so, sir,” replied Brown, carrying on as if I hadn’t had to remind him. “Quite so. Lord Foxton is waiting for you in the library. May I take your coat?”

I handed it to him as we ambled sedately into the house.

“This way, sir,” he said. He led me, once again, along the side of the staircase to where the passage narrowed, but this time took a sharp right into a further passage, and indicated a door on the left. “There you are, sir. Could I fetch you a drink?”

“A pot of tea would be most welcome,” I said. “Thank you.” Brown pottered off to make the necessary arrangements.

The door to the library was slightly ajar, and I rapped on it three times before pushing it open.

Foxton sat in a burgundy leather armchair, a book resting open upon his lap. He was dressed in a tweed suit, with a white shirt and mustard-coloured jumper beneath his jacket. He looked up and offered me a welcoming smile when he saw me hovering in the doorway. “Good day to you, Dr. Watson,” he said. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Come in, come in.”

The library was a most impressive room, filled to bursting point with books. Unlike Underwood’s chaotic lair, however, this room was ordered and tidy. Foxton clearly had a system: his shelves were labelled, his books ordered by subject and author. It was a room clearly devised for a single purpose – to read in. There was no desk, no drinks cabinet, no other unwanted distractions. Aside from the books, the room contained only two armchairs and a small occasional table.

The smell of the musty old pages filled my nostrils, and I sighed appreciatively. “Ah, now this is a room I can approve of,” I said, drinking it in.

Foxton laughed. “I think, if you looked carefully, Dr. Watson, you’d find a number of your own literary endeavours nestling amongst the others on the shelves.”

I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Your support is much appreciated, Lord Foxton. It appears to be a superb collection.”

Foxton sighed. “What is life about, Dr. Watson, if it is not about literature? To my mind, all else is a distraction. I should happily idle away the rest of my days in the company of a good book.” He smiled. “Now, please, take a seat. I’ll arrange for Brown to bring tea.”

“Ah, no need,” I said, somewhat self-conscious. “He’s already seeing to it.”

Foxton laughed. “Good old Brown. Ever efficient.” He folded his book shut and placed it on the floor by his feet. I took a seat opposite him.

I could see now that Holmes had been correct in his assertion – Foxton and I did appear to be of a similar temperament.

“Now, tell me, Doctor – how may I be of assistance?” said Foxton. “Something to do with a case you’re investigating, I presume?”

“Yes, I apologise if I was perhaps a little vague on the telephone, but I thought it best not to broadcast the reason for my visit to the rest of your household,” I said.

Foxton frowned. He looked troubled. “Then am I to understand, Doctor, that your questions pertain directly to myself or my ward?”

I nodded. “Specifically, to the relationship between Mr. Underwood and Henry Baxter, of Tidwell Bank.”

There was an immediate change in Foxton’s demeanour at the mention of that name. His expression darkened, his eyes narrowed. “Ah,” he said, and there was a palpable reluctance in his voice. “I had hoped I’d managed to nip that business in the bud.” He fixed me with a look so intense that it felt as if his gaze was burrowing through me, such was his wish to underline his next point. “Mr. Henry Baxter is an odious wretch and he is not welcome in this house,” he said, “or any other in which I might assert an influence.”

I was about to press him further, but hesitated at the sound of a rattling tea tray from just outside the door.

“Come on in, Brown,” called Foxton, and the elderly butler shouldered open the door and bustled in with the tray. The teacups bounced in their saucers and rattled noisily as a result of his tremor.

“Very good, sir.” Brown set the tea tray down on the occasional table and made a hasty retreat from the room, pulling the door to behind him.

“Forgive me, Lord Foxton,” I said, “but might I ask you to elaborate on your obvious distaste for Henry Baxter?”

Foxton ran a hand through his muss of silver-grey hair. “Well, yes, I suppose I must,” he replied. “You see, it’s all down to his relationship with Seaton.”

“Relationship?” I queried.

“Such as it is.” He sighed. “You must understand, Dr. Watson – Seaton is a very vulnerable young man. Are you aware of how he came into my care?”

“I am not,” I said.

“It was fifteen years ago, now. My family, as you may or may not be aware, made its fortune in the woollen industry. We still own a number of mills in the Home Counties and the Midlands. Seaton’s father was employed at one such mill. Philip Underwood was a good worker, a well-respected man, much liked by his peers. Handy with the machines, you see. The milling machines are prone to breaking down, and Underwood had a knack for fixing them.

“It was during one such episode,” Foxton continued, “when production had been halted and one of the machines was jammed, that Underwood tried to mend it. Something went wrong – I’ve never been quite sure what – and he was killed as the machine started up again.”

I winced at the thought of such a terrible death, although in itself, an accident in an industrial works was not uncommon. I’d heard similar stories a hundred times before.

“Underwood’s wife, distraught, committed suicide a few days later. Seaton was only five years old – an orphan – and I felt responsible, you see?”

Foxton’s eyes met mine, and I could see a genuine sadness in his expression. “I saw to it that the boy was placed in the care of a good local family, with an appropriate allowance. What else was there to do? I couldn’t allow him to be sent to the orphanage. After all, it was my fault,
my
mill, which had taken his parents away from him. It was the least I could do.”