The Lost Casebooks of Sherlock Holmes (57 page)

‘Pray come in, sir, and be seated,' Holmes said genially, ‘I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate Dr Watson. I imagine, however, that you already know that.'

The tall pale man made a little bow in each direction and said awkwardly, ‘The truth is, Mr Holmes, I had heard of neither of you until two days ago. My wife and I lead a quiet and, until recently, a contented life. Even the newspapers have little claim on my attention.'

‘No matter,' said Holmes, guiding him to a chair, ‘I fear I did not have the pleasure of gathering your name from the letters you kindly forwarded.'

Our visitor looked at him quickly, as if he did not expect Holmes to connect him so easily with the curious correspondence.

‘It was not my intention to deceive you,' he said guardedly as we sat down.

Holmes gave him another quick but reassuring smile.

‘My dear sir, there was no deceit. What is a name at this stage? It is enough for me that you are plainly a devout man held in high regard. A Methodist local preacher, I fancy, living in Buckinghamshire. Your daughter has made an injudicious marriage to Mr Smith, a scoundrel. On Tuesday afternoon, two days ago, I rather think you went to Oxford to consult Mr Henry Howes, of Howes and Woodhall, solicitors in St Michael Street. On his advice, you sent me copies of three letters from Mr Smith, demanding sums unpaid by you from a promissory note given him a month or two ago. This was understood to be payment for removing himself and leaving your daughter alone. Unfortunately nothing was put in writing to that effect. The result is that he has married your daughter since then and now proposes to enforce payment of the money. This morning, on the advice of Mr Howes, you came up by train and have just walked here from Marylebone station.'

Like so many clients, our visitor stared as if he suspected witchcraft.

‘I could almost believe, sir, that you have spied upon me!'

Holmes set him at his ease.

‘I have done nothing but exercise a little common sense. The cut and clerical pattern of your suit, like the label in your overcoat, comes from Harris and Rogerson of Victoria Street, close to the Methodist Central Hall, well-known as tailors to the clergy of that denomination. You do not wear a clerical collar but you have the manner and address of a public speaker. This leads me to suppose you are a local preacher in your circuit. You did not come by cab, for we should have heard it draw up, therefore you have walked a relatively short distance or your shoes and trouser-cuffs would be wetter. Marylebone is our closest terminus. Your coat and umbrella have kept you dry for the most part. I merely note that your lower right trouser-leg is marked by rain, while the left is not. After many years of residence, I recognize that as the sign of a man who has walked from Marylebone station in the prevailing wind rather than from the Metropolitan line at Baker Street. The time of your arrival suggests you have come by the line that runs to Buckinghamshire. So early in the day, you could scarcely have come from a greater distance.'

Our visitor shifted uneasily.

‘Then Mr Howes has not betrayed my confidence?'

Holmes shook his head.

‘I observe that the postage stamp on your envelope was cancelled in Oxford at 6
A
.
M
. yesterday. You yourself would hardly be in Oxford at such an early hour, of course. At least, you would not go all the way to the sorting office to post a letter at that time, when you might just as well have sent it from any post-box during the rest of the day. The envelope was, therefore, placed in the box on Tuesday night, after the day's final collection, at about 10
P
.
M
. If you were in Oxford prior to posting these most important documents, then it is reasonable to suppose that you went to seek advice and that you spent some hours considering whether to follow it.'

‘That is the case precisely,' said our visitor, somewhat relieved.

‘Indeed,' said Holmes comfortingly. ‘As for the recommendation, I am acquainted with Warden Spooner of New College, Strachan Davidson the Master of Balliol, and several senior members of the School of Natural Science at the University. However, they are not men to be approached in such a matter as this. On the other hand, I was once able to render a small service to Mr Howes. He is the most likely person in that city to have mentioned my name to you. The fact that he did not forward the papers himself also suggests to me that you spent some hours pondering the matter. At length, you decided to post them without a covering letter, so that you still did not commit yourself by name. You then returned home by the last train. Aylesbury or Tring on the 10.45 from Oxford, I should guess. I daresay I am quite wrong.'

‘Tring was the station, but my home is not there,' said our visitor quietly. ‘You are wrong only in that, Mr Holmes, for I live at Aston Clinton, several miles away. I could not have believed in such powers of deduction if I had not witnessed them for myself.'

‘I assure you,' Holmes said gently, ‘it is not difficult to construct a series of inferences, each dependent upon its predecessor and simple in itself. If one merely knocks out the central inferences and presents only a starting-point and conclusion, it has a startling effect. But it is simple enough, for all that.'

‘My name,' said the tall pale man, ‘is William Maxse. My daughter Constance is a handsome young woman with a little money. She trained as a nurse for three years at Southsea and has held some excellent positions.'

‘Until she met Mr Smith?'

‘Precisely,' Mr Maxse's colour rose. ‘Unfortunately there is more to it than that. I have a dear friend and colleague at our chapel, Charles Burnham, whose daughter Alice trained with mine. Both girls came from Wesleyan families in the same town. When they went away to Portsmouth, the chapel at Southsea, as well as the hospital, became a centre of their lives. The scoundrel of whom I speak attended the Southsea chapel.'

‘Allow me,' said Holmes, who was taking a few notes. ‘How long ago did this matter begin?'

‘Two years ago, Smith courted and married Alice Burnham, to her parents' great distress. No sooner was the wedding over than he began to demand what he called the money due as a marriage settlement. He did so in the most abusive terms, almost word for word such as you have seen in his address to me.'

‘And was the money paid?'

‘It was paid, Mr Holmes, for poor Burnham feared that any legal action would destroy his child's reputation.'

‘How most unfortunate. Pray continue with your narrative.'

‘It almost makes me weep to do so,' said Mr Maxse quietly. ‘After Smith and Miss Burnham had been married a little while, Alice Burnham died in a swimming accident of some kind at Blackpool, where they were on holiday. Smith returned to Southsea and appeared once again in the chapel, distraught at his loss. He swore that he could no longer bear the memories which the town evoked and so he went to live elsewhere. I heard this much from Charles Burnham himself and supposed we had heard the last of the wretch.'

‘One seldom hears the last of such men,' said Holmes thoughtfully. ‘When was it that Smith reappeared?'

‘Two years later he returned to Southsea. I think it is not too much to say that he laid siege to my Constance's heart when they met again in chapel. He corrupted my girl's affections, Mr Holmes. I warned her in vain against him. She wrote back swearing that he was the most loving and Christian-like man.'

Holmes muttered something which I did not catch. Mr Maxse continued.

‘The result of my warnings was to turn poor Connie against me. I heard nothing for a week or two and prayed that this meant a separation between them. Alas, it did not. I swear it was Smith who persuaded my girl that it was best to marry him first and tell her mother and me afterwards. So it happened. I knew nothing of their register-office wedding until a week later, when the demands for money began. No bride-cake, no photograph, no loving words from my darling. I ask you, sir, if I may legitimately refuse payment to him and if you can bring my Constance back to me?'

Holmes let his chin rest on his chest, showing his bird-of-prey profile.

‘Unless there is money already settled on her in the event of her marriage, he has no such claim on you. As to her return, it is she who must will it.'

‘Then let the money go, Mr Holmes! How may I bring my child back and—God forgive me—see this devil destroyed?'

Holmes crossed to the window, and in a characteristic pause looked down into the street for a moment before replying. Then he turned round.

‘You may depend upon me to do whatever I can. But you must understand that the law will support your son-in-law as a husband in almost every respect.'

‘I care nothing for money!' cried the poor man in his despair.

‘Just so. Mr Smith counts on that. I must repeat, however, as to bringing a daughter home, there is little a father can do that will not drive a bride deeper into the arms of such a …'

‘Such a reptile! I saw it in him the first and last time our paths crossed.'

‘Quite. Now your daughter must see it, for herself. When she does so, your time will come. Until then, right remains on your side. The law, unfortunately, is on his.'

Mr Maxse had twisted in his chair to face Holmes squarely, his face flushed with anger.

‘Then you can do nothing for me?'

Holmes walked back and sat down just opposite him.

‘I did not say so, Mr Maxse. The law can do nothing, as matters stand. I, however, am not the law.'

I never saw such gratitude sparkle in the eyes of a client. Before Mr Maxse left us, Holmes was no less to him than a knight in arms. When we were alone, my friend lit his pipe in silence and sat lost in thought until I interrupted him at last.

‘They have been married two weeks already. It is presumably too late for an annulment and certainly too early for a divorce. How is such a case to be won?'

He put down his pipe.

‘It astonishes me, Watson, that you have gathered so little. As a medical man, you surely see that Smith is no common scoundrel. He steps full-grown from Dr Albert Moll's admirable treatise on criminal psychopathology.'

I saw nothing of the kind but it seemed neither the time nor place to say so.

‘The wedding-photograph,' Holmes said thoughtfully. ‘Why was the newly-married Mrs Smith forbidden to send a copy to her parents? Was it not the most natural thing for her to do?'

‘Perhaps no photograph was taken.'

‘Where there is a wedding,' he said sourly, ‘there is a photograph, usually of questionable artistry.'

‘You think Smith did not want his wife's parents to see a likeness of him?'

‘Come, Watson! They had seen him in the flesh. No. Friend Smith is concerned that no one else should see his wedding picture. What crime might that photograph reveal to a person who saw it by chance and identified him?'

‘Bigamy? A wedding under other circumstances can scarcely constitute a crime where the bride is of age.'

He looked at me, as if I might be his despair.

‘This illiterate boor exercises such power over two intelligent and capable young women that they, at his command, cast off their parents and all their love for them. Who, short of a hypnotist or Dr Mesmer in person, could accomplish such a feat twice with two such loving daughters—and who knows with how many more? If Mr Smith proves to be a mere bigamist, Watson, I shall regard him as a sad disappointment.'

II

For several days, following Mr Maxse's visit, Holmes abandoned Monsieur Scriabin's tone-poem. Nothing would do but he must lounge about the sitting-room with his violin, singing the phrases of Mr Smith's absurd letters to tunes that took his fancy. I recall, painfully, ‘The Keel-Row', tortured on the fiddle-strings until it fitted, ‘My mother was a bus-horse, my father a cab-driver, my sister a rough-rider across the arctic regions.'

So far as his case was concerned, he appeared to have forgotten it.

It was several mornings later when I chanced to see an official envelope among the letters awaiting his attention. As he lifted the one above it, the form of address on the lower one was revealed: ‘Miss Phoebe Golightly, 221b Baker Street, London W.' I stared at him as he read its predecessor, until at last he looked up, as if suddenly aware of my attention. I pointed at the envelope.

‘What the devil is that, Holmes?'

He glanced at it with complete unconcern, then stared back at me.

‘It is I, Watson. I am Miss Phoebe Golightly, by courtesy of the typewriter, which is impartial in matters of handwriting and sex. I am a youthful spinster who attended a wedding on Saturday week at the Portsmouth Register Office. Indeed, I was a bridesmaid to my cousin. In the excitement which, for reasons that baffle me, follows these ceremonies, I gave a shawl to be held by the photographer's assistant while the pictures were taken. The jollity of the occasion was such that I was half-way to the reception before realizing that I had left the garment behind. I feel sure that some register official would know the firms of Portsmouth photographers likely to be present that afternoon.'

I watched him open the letter and scowl at it. Then his face brightened.

‘And here we are. Mr Collins of Wellington Street, Southsea, or, perhaps the larger business of Whitfield and Buller of Stanhope Road, Portsmouth. You will observe from the letters sent to Mr Maxse that the Smiths are lodging at an address in Kimberley Road, East Southsea. The probability must be that Mr Collins of Wellington Street was their man.'

‘If a photograph was taken.'

‘If it was not, Watson, we must pursue another course. I think, however, Mr Smith would not be so foolish as show his true meanness so early to his bride.'

That afternoon, a further fabrication devised by Holmes in the name of Mr Maxse, solicited a copy of his daughter's wedding-photograph. Before the week was out, a stout envelope brought back this full-plate print. The photograph showed too plainly the meanness of the occasion, whose ceremony had been attended only by the bride and groom. The witnesses, who stood either side of the couple, were plainly a pair of register officials. Constance Maxse appeared a well-built and rather plump young woman with dark hair and an air of resolve. She did not seem in the least like a wayward daughter but a figure of somewhat matronly decorum.