The House Of Silk (22 page)

‘I am not Holmes,’ I said.

‘Indeed not. I was just reading in the paper that Mr Holmes has fallen into the most disreputable circumstances.’

‘He did so in pursuit of the business that you brought to his door.’

‘A business that has now been concluded.’

‘He does not think so.’

‘I beg to disagree.’

‘Come, Edmund,’ Mrs Carstairs cut in. ‘Dr Watson has very kindly travelled with me all the way from London. He has agreed to see Eliza and give us the benefit of his opinion.’

‘Eliza has already been seen by several doctors.’

‘And one more opinion can’t hurt.’ She took his arm. ‘You have no idea what it’s been like for me these last few days. Please, my dear. Let him see her. It may help her, too, even if it’s only to have someone else to whom she can complain.’

Carstairs relented. He patted her hand. ‘Very well. But it won’t be possible for a while. My sister rose late this morning and I heard her drawing a bath. Elsie is with her now. It will be at least thirty minutes before she is presentable.’

‘I am quite happy to wait,’ I said. ‘But I will use the time, if I may, to examine the kitchen. If your sister persists in her belief that her food is being tampered with, it may prove useful to see where it is prepared.’

‘Of course, Dr Watson. And you must forgive my rudeness just now. I wish Mr Holmes well and I am glad to see you. It’s just that this nightmare never seems to stop. First Boston, then my poor mother, that business at the hotel, now Eliza. Only yesterday I acquired a gouache from the school of Rubens, a fine study of Moses at the Red Sea. But now I wonder if I am not afflicted by curses as fearsome as those experienced by the Pharaohs.’

We went downstairs and into a large, airy kitchen so filled with pots and pans, steaming cauldrons and chopping boards that it gave the impression of being busy even though there was very little activity in evidence. There were three people in the room. One of them I recognised. The manservant, Kirby, who had first admitted us to Ridgeway Hall was sitting at the table, buttering some bread for his lunch. A small, ginger-haired pudding of a woman was standing at the stove, stirring a soup, the aroma of which – beef and vegetables – filled the air. The third person was a sly-looking young man, sitting in the corner, idly polishing the cutlery. Although Kirby had risen to his feet the moment we entered, I noticed that the young man remained where he was, glancing over his shoulder as if we were intruders who had no right to disturb him. He had long, yellow hair, a slightly feminine face, and must have been about eighteen or nineteen years old. I remembered Carstairs telling Holmes and I that Kirby’s wife had a nephew, Patrick, who worked below stairs and supposed this must be him.

Carstairs introduced me. ‘This is Dr Watson, who is trying to determine the cause of my sister’s illness. He may have some questions for you and I would be glad if you would answer them as candidly as you can.’

Although I had insinuated myself into the kitchen, I was actually unsure what to say but began with the cook who seemed the most approachable of the three. ‘You are Mrs Kirby?’ I asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you prepare all the food?’

‘Everything is prepared in this kitchen, sir, by me and by my husband. Patrick scrubs the potatoes and helps with the washing, when he can be so minded, but all the food passes through my hands and if there is anything poisoned in this house, Dr Watson, you won’t be finding it here. My kitchen is spotless, sir. We scrub it with carbolate of lime once a month. You can enter the pantry if you wish. Everything is in its place and there’s plenty of fresh air. We buy the food locally and nothing that’s not fresh comes through the door.’

‘It’s not the food that’s the cause of Miss Carstairs’s illness, begging your pardon, sir,’ muttered Kirby with a glance at the master of the house. ‘You and Mrs Carstairs have had nothing different to her and you’re both well.’

‘If you ask me, there’s something strange what’s come into this house,’ Mrs Kirby said.

‘What do you mean by that, Margaret?’ Mrs Carstairs demanded.

‘I don’t know, ma’am. I don’t mean anything by it. But we’re all worried to death on account of poor Miss Carstairs and it’s just as if somehow there’s something wrong about this place but whatever it is, my conscience is clear and I would pack my bags tomorrow and leave if anyone suggested otherwise.’

‘Nobody is blaming you, Mrs Kirby.’

‘But she’s right though. There is something wrong in this house.’ It was the kitchen boy, speaking for the first time and his accent reminded me that Carstairs had told us that he came from Ireland.

‘Your name is Patrick, is it not?’ I asked.

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘And where are you from?’

‘From Belfast, sir.’

It was surely a coincidence and nothing more but Rourke and Keelan O’Donaghue had also come from Belfast. ‘How long have you been here, Patrick?’ I asked.

‘Two years. I came here just before Mrs Carstairs.’ And the boy smirked as if at some private joke.

It was none of my business, but everything about his behaviour – the way he slouched on his stool and even the manner of his speech – struck me as purposefully disrespectful and I was surprised that Carstairs allowed him to get away with it. His wife was less tolerant.

‘How dare you speak to us like that, Patrick,’ she said. ‘If you’re insinuating something, you should say it. And if you’re unhappy here, you should leave.’

‘I like it well enough, Mrs Carstairs, and I wouldn’t say there was anywhere else I would want to go.’

‘Such insolence! Edmund, will you not speak to him?’

Carstairs hesitated, and in that brief pause there was a jangle and Kirby looked round at the row of servants’ bells on the far wall. ‘That’s Miss Carstairs, sir,’ he said.

‘She must have finished her bath,’ Carstairs said. ‘We can go up to her. Unless you have any more questions, Dr Watson?’

‘Not at all,’ I replied. The few questions I had asked had been futile and I was suddenly dispirited, for it had occurred to me that had Holmes been present, he would have probably have solved the entire mystery by now. What would he have made of the Irish serving boy and his relationship with the rest of them? And what would he have seen as his eyes swept across the room? ‘You see, Watson, but you do not observe.’ He had said it often enough and never had I felt it to be more true. The kitchen knife lying on the table, the soup bubbling on the hearth, the brace of pheasants hanging from a hook in the pantry, Kirby casting his eyes downwards, his wife standing with her hands on her apron, Patrick still smiling … would they have told him something more than they told me? Undoubtedly. Show Holmes a drop of water and he would deduce the existence of the Atlantic. Show it to me and I would look for a tap. That was the difference between us.

We went back upstairs and all the way to the top floor. As we climbed up, we passed a young girl, hurrying the other way with a bowl and two towels. This was Elsie, the scullery maid. She kept her head down and I saw nothing of her face. She brushed past us and was gone.

Carstairs knocked gently at the door, then entered his sister’s bedroom to see if she would receive a visit from me. I waited outside with Mrs Carstairs. ‘I will leave you here, Dr Watson,’ said she. ‘It will only distress my sister-in-law if I go in. But please let me know if there is anything that you notice that has a bearing on her illness.’

‘Of course.’

‘And thank you again for coming. I feel so relieved to have you as my friend.’

She swept away just as the door opened and Carstairs invited me in. I entered a close, plushly furnished bedroom built into the eaves with small windows, the curtains partly drawn and a fire burning in the grate. I noticed that a second door opened into an adjoining bathroom and the smell of lavender bath salts was heavy in the air. Eliza Carstairs was lying in bed, propped up with pillows and wearing a shawl. I could see at once that her health had deteriorated rapidly since my last visit. She had the pinched, exhausted quality that I had all too often observed in my more serious patients, and her eyes stared out pitifully over the sharp ridges that her cheekbones had become. She had combed her hair, but it was still dishevelled, spreading around her shoulders. Her hands, resting on the sheet in front of her, might have been those of a dead woman.

‘Dr Watson!’ she greeted me and her voice rasped in her throat. ‘Why have you come to visit me?’

‘Your sister-in-law asked me to come, Miss Carstairs,’ I replied.

‘My sister-in-law wants me dead.’

‘That is not the impression she gave. May I take your pulse?’

‘You may take what you wish. I have nothing more to give. And when I am gone, take my word for it, Edmund will be next.’

‘Hush, Eliza! Don’t say such things,’ her brother scolded her.

I held her pulse which was beating much too rapidly as her body attempted to fight off the disease. Her skin had a slightly bluish tinge which, along with the other symptoms that had been reported to me, made me wonder if her doctors might be right in suggesting cholera as the cause of her sickness. ‘You have abdominal pain?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

‘And aching joints?’

‘I can feel my bones rotting away.’

‘You have doctors in attendance. What drugs have they prescribed?’

‘My sister is taking laudanum,’ Carstairs said.

‘Are you eating?’

‘It is the food that is killing me!’

‘You should try to eat, Miss Carstairs. Starving yourself will only make you weaker.’ I released her. ‘There is little more I can suggest. You might open the windows to allow the air to circulate, and cleanliness, of course, is of the first importance.’

‘I bath every day.’

‘It would help to change your garments and the bed linen every day too. But above all, you must eat. I have visited the kitchen and seen that your meals are well prepared. You have nothing to fear.’

‘I am being poisoned.’

‘If you are being poisoned, then so am I!’ Carstairs exclaimed. ‘Please, Eliza! Why will you not see sense?’

‘I am tired.’ The sick woman fell back, closing her eyes. ‘I thank you for your visit, Dr Watson. Open the windows and change the bed clothes! I can see that you must be at the very pinnacle of your profession!’

Carstairs ushered me out and, in truth, I was glad to go. Eliza Carstairs had been rude and scornful the first time we had met her and her illness had only exaggerated these aspects of her character. The two of us parted company at the front door. ‘Thank you for your visit, Dr Watson,’ he said. ‘I understand the forces that drove my dear Catherine to your door and I very much hope that Mr Holmes will be able to extricate himself from the difficulties which he is in.’

We shook hands. I was about to leave and then I remembered. ‘There is just one other thing, Mr Carstairs. Is your wife able to swim?’

‘I’m sorry? What an extraordinary question! Why do you wish to know?’

‘I have my methods …’

‘Well, as a matter of fact, Catherine cannot swim at all. Indeed, she has a fear of the sea and has told me she will not enter the water under any circumstances.’

‘Thank you, Mr Carstairs.’

‘Good day, Dr Watson.’

The door closed. I had received an answer to the question that Holmes had put to me. Now all I needed to know was why I had asked it.

A note from Mycroft awaited me on my return. He would be at the Diogenes Club early that evening and would be pleased to see me if I would like to call upon him at around that time. I was almost worn out by my journey to and from Wimbledon on top of the activity of recent days … it was never possible for me to exert myself to any great extent without being reminded of the injuries I had sustained in Afghanistan. Even so, I decided to go out once again after a short rest for I was acutely aware of the ordeal that Sherlock Holmes must be enduring while I was at liberty, and this outweighed any consideration of my own well-being. Mycroft might not give me a second opportunity to visit him, for he was as capricious as he was corpulent, flitting like some oversized shadow through the corridors of power. Mrs Hudson had laid out a late lunch which I ate before falling asleep in my chair and the sky was already darkening when I set out and caught a cab back to Pall Mall.

He met me once again in the Stranger’s Room but this time his manner was more clipped and formal than it had been when I was there with Holmes. He began without any pleasantries. ‘This is a bad business. A very bad business. Why did my brother seek my advice if he was not prepared to take it?’

‘I think it was information he required from you, not advice,’ I countered.

‘A fair point. But given that I was able to provide only the one and not the other, he might have done well to listen to what I had to say. I told him that no good would come of it – but that was his character, even when he was very young. He was impetuous. Our mother used to say the same and always feared that he would find himself in trouble. Would that she had lived to see him established as a detective. She would have smiled at that!’

‘Can you help him?’

‘You already know the answer to that, Dr Watson, for I told you the last time we met. There is nothing I can do.’

‘Would you see him hanged for murder?’

‘It will not come to that. It cannot come to that. Already I am working behind the scenes, and although I am finding a surprising amount of interference and obfuscation, he is too well known to too many people of importance for that possibility to arise.’

‘He is being held at Holloway.’

‘So I understand, and being well cared for – or at least as well as that grim place will allow.’

‘What can you tell me of Inspector Harriman?’

‘A good police officer, a man of integrity, with not a spot on his record.’

‘And what of the other witnesses?’

Mycroft closed his eyes and lifted his head as if tasting a good wine. In this way did he give himself pause for thought. ‘I know what you are inferring, Dr Watson,’ he said at length. ‘And you must believe me when I say that, despite his reckless behaviour, I still have Sherlock’s best interests at heart and am working to make sense of what has happened. I have already, at considerable personal expense, investigated the backgrounds of both Dr Thomas Ackland and Lord Horace Blackwater, and regret to tell you that as far as I can see they are beyond reproach, both of good families, both single, both wealthy men. The two of them do not club together. They did not go to the same school. For most of their lives, they have lived hundreds of miles apart. Beyond the coincidence of their both being in Limehouse at the same time of night, there is nothing that connects them.’