This is Chapter 6 of my novel, and it's a reinterpretation of Doyle's "Speckled Band". You might wish to refresh your memory, but then again, much of the text is reproduced here. If Holmes's personality is throwing you off, let me hint that the first five chapters are for developing the conceit of Holmes as an imp, a haughty detective whose coolness is often broken by his playfulness and his propensity to sarcastically taunt Watson, especially about his writing endeavors. It's something the doctor gets used to, in a behind the scenes way. Please note that this is a depiction of their early life, in 1883, when they are young men and new partners, and is not meant all to be applicable to their later lives.
(written a few months after the described events)
My stepfather's eyes were watching me that morning. I could feel the cold chill of them on me as I escaped, hurrying on the foot-path to get down to the gate and across the road to the Crown Inn. He just stood in the doorway, still scowling after me in his displeasure and filling up the whole frame with his bulk. The faded grey dressing-gown he'd thrown on over his night-clothes made him one in the same with the grey, lonely old house. Ancient, imposing, stark. I was a little afraid of both of them, dodging their fierce glare breathlessly. I did not feel truly safe until I shut the gate behind me and turned, finally off of the grounds.
My heart had not fully settled, of course, but I could at last slow my stride to a more seemly pace. I reached the Inn and quickly made inquiries about a dog-cart. Thank heaven that five thirty-seven was not too early. When I did check my watch, I saw that it was actually close on six. So my stepfather had detained me a while. I thought only my nerves had lengthened the time.
I got on the cart and we started for Leatherhead. I sat at the left and held to the cart as we rolled on through the mud. The journey would be five miles, and then there would be the train to London. I found the April air was crisp at this time of the morning and somewhat irritating to the throat. It might also have been a lingering effect of my scream.
I normally could handle these clashes with my stepfather in a cooler, more reasonable fashion, but this morning was certainly not normal, was certainly not reasonable. I smiled bitterly at the thought that my brief rashness might just cost me the privilege of freely coming and going for weeks. My life reduced to such absurdity, didn't it?
I sighed. I didn't matter. It didn't matter so long as I got out of that house. So long as I got away from stepfather's overbearing tyranny. I clutched my hands in my lap, unable to be calm. My wrist still throbbed, and I saw the bruise then, pulling my cuff down over the mark. Stepfather's temper flared more and more lately. That poor blacksmith.
The sky continued to brighten. I vaguely wondered if I'd have time to eat anywhere. But breakfast could certainly wait, as could sleep. Indeed, I could not imagine myself being able to sleep again. At the station, I quickly purchased a ticket and boarded the train. Soon Surrey was slipping away outside my window, and I breathed a long sigh of relief. At that moment I thought that heaven resided in London. I only hoped I'd not have to return to hell too soon.
Perhaps I ought to have gone through the side door this morning, rather than have tried passing my stepfather's room. He was roused by my boots in the corridor, though I'd tried to be quiet. I'd jumped when he opened his door.
"Helen! what are you doing up?" His brooding eyes were suspicious and his mouth set in a frown. "What--fully dressed, too?"
"Good-morning, stepfather," I said, keeping my voice as steady as I could. I forced a polite smile while his hard wrinkles never shifted. "I was just going out."
He stepped towards me, throwing his immense shadow forward. "To where? It's barely dawn."
"Yes, I know, stepfather. But it's my desire to catch the early train. I have business--"
"Leaving Surrey, then? Why? To see Percy?"
I shook my head, "No--"
"And you were going to just go off without a word to anyone?" His voice was sharper.
"I--I didn't think it necessary to disturb you or Mrs. Beale so early. I left a note in my room."
"You know I have business in London later today. You should wait and we'll drive to the train station together."
"No," I said, "It's just some shopping and small business to do with my wedding that I would fain take care of quickly. I would much prefer a slightly inconvenient start now, in hopes of an early return. Do go on with your schedule and don't trouble about mine, stepfather." I dropped my veil and stepped to the front door.
"You haven't had breakfast, either," he blocked my path.
"I'm not hungry."
"Come now," he took my wrist. "You must eat before your journey."
"I'm in a hurry. I'll do without just now."
He would not let go. "Where is it that you are going again?"
"Stepfather, please, you'll make me late. If you'll excuse me--"
He held me with an iron grip. "I don't like you going alone."
"Stepfather!" I tried to remove his hand.
"Not so fast." He relinquished no force while I struggled.
"Stepfather, stop!"
He stepped closer with a menacing look, and I fancied that he meant to snatch my other arm and shake me. I let out a shriek, and at last stumbled freely away. He looked at me oddly, startled by the fierceness of my resistance.
"You'll have woken Mrs. Beale," he said with a pretence at restraint.
I still saw the menace of his dark eyes.
"Then say good-morning to her for me," I said. I turned and opened the door, quickly stepping out from his shadow.
Yet as I went down the foot-path, half glancing every now and then, he was still there, standing in the door without a word or a motion. Thank God for my marriage in six weeks.
My train arrived at Waterloo station, and I looked for a hansom cab. As I did so, I checked the scrap of paper in my pocket. "221B Baker Street." The man had left his rooms in Montague Street, according to Mrs. Farintosh, and I sincerely hoped that she had made no mistake in inquiring of his new address.
I spotted an empty cab and hurriedly hailed it. "221B Baker Street, please." I climbed inside and we pulled away.
My resolve began to fail me then. Had I overreacted? Had I hallucinated? Everything always did come back to the validity of trusting my senses. Yet the sound of that low whistle in the night had been so clear, so distinct. This time, too, there had been no storm. That was something, surely? In any case, what else could I do? A private detective was the only option left.
But what if this trip was useless? What if he didn't believe me, just like Percy? I sighed, feeling lonely. Even Percy thought I must have let my imagination run too free. Even Percy judged me so unsettled by my nerves and my lonely environment that I would have unreasonable fancies and false suspicions. He hated my even mentioning my fears, ashamed that I acted as suspicious as the rest of the village. "Please, please, don't descend to the level of the gossip mongers in that little town of yours!" his eyes said. So I knew I could not tell him of my latest apprehensions. And yet, what was I doing going to a complete stranger instead?
"Baker Street!" cried the cabby as we came to a stop.
After a breath, I stepped down and paid my fare. "Um, excuse me. Would you know for a fact if a Mr. Sherlock Holmes definitely resides here?"
He smiled, nodding. "I would, Miss. He's been here two years now. 'S had quite an assortment of visitors, too." He grinned knowingly.
"I see," I said as he took the extra coin. "Thank you."
He tipped his cap and drove on.
Coming forward, I pulled the bell chain beside the door. I pulled several more times and knocked loudly before at last there was an answer.
A grey-haired little woman opened the door and peered at me with blinking eyes. I bit my lip. "I'm sorry I woke you, ma'am."
"Well, it must be quite a thing to keep ringing for," she replied, not harshly, but still tiredly. She took me in from head to toe, and I realised then that my heavy veil and dress appeared almost to be a costume of mourning. A telling instinct on my part, since Julia had been dead these two years. "Are you wanting to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes, dear?"
"Yes, please."
"Come on in, then."
She let me into a dim front hall that even still appeared friendly and cosy. She shut the door and turned a lamp up higher. "You'll have to wait a bit, Miss," she said, "because he's most likely to be sleeping now. I'll just go up and wake him."
She ascended the stairs and passed down a corridor off of the landing, entering the door marked 221B.
Sitting down on the stairs, I checked my watch. It was just seven now. Perhaps I should have stopped for breakfast first. Yet I never usually ate before eight-thirty. I wondered if I was giving the detective an unfavorable impression of myself as a client. Prone to hysteria and inconvenient demands?
From the doorway above, the lady called down to me. "Come on up, dear, and wait in here. I'll start the fire and warm you up a little."
"Yes, thank you, ma'am." I ascended and soon entered a large, rather crowded sitting-room that was considerably untidy. I nearly tripped upon a violin case, then tiptoed my way to a seat.
"There you are now," she said, finishing and rising from the hearth.
"Thank you, ma'am."
She left and closed the door. I heard some movements come from the inner chambers, but no one emerged from the corridor as yet. I waited.
The crush of furniture was accompanied by a close atmosphere of tobacco smoke, and a foul chemical smell had its source in a laboratory at the far corner. I tried not to be nauseated, clinging to the fresh air at the window, though it was cold.
At a desk by one wall was an accumulation of pens, notebooks, newspaper clippings, and some letters. I wondered what separated those from the correspondence that I saw affixed to the mantle with a knife.
I heard footsteps in the hallway. He was coming.
Already I shook. Could I confess my fears to a detective? Dare I accuse my stepfather? I felt even now that my suspicions might be unjust. I floundered in doubt. This man was my last hope.
Two men entered, one tall and clean shaven, and another with a moustache.
I rose from the window.
"Good-morning, madam," the taller one smiled, taking my hand. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself." He turned around. "Ha! I am glad to see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that you are shivering."
I swallowed as I sat down. "It is not cold which makes me shiver."
"What, then?" he asked, dropping into a chair opposite me.
I raised my veil so that I might face him. He surprised me with his youth and his keen eyes, reflecting the grey that streaked my own red hair. "It is fear, Mr. Holmes," I answered him quietly. "It is terror."
He blinked at me and reached forward, touching my arm. "You must not fear," he raised an eyebrow, his voice encouraging. "We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt." He leaned back and crossed his legs. "You have come in by train this morning, I see."
I blinked, puzzled. "You know me, then?"
He shook his head, looking bored. "No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of your left glove."
I looked to my hand, having forgotten that I had not even dropped my ticket into my pocket yet. In fact, I was crushing it in my hand.
"You must have started early," he continued in a matter-of-fact tone, "and yet you had a good drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the station."
I nearly jumped out of my chair.
He smiled, opening his eyes a little as his friend shifted closer. "There is no mystery, my dear madam. The left arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand of the driver."
I wondered at his curious kind of knowledge of vehicles and at his whole peculiar manner. "Whatever your reasons may be," I replied, "you are perfectly correct. I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and came in by the first train to Waterloo."
He nodded, as if confirming me. His parlour-trick revelations quite threw me off balance, and I wrung my hands.
"Sir," I burst out, "I can stand this strain no longer. I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to, none!--save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little aid." I closed my eyes for a moment, swallowing, and then looked up again. "I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from her that I had your address. Oh sir, do you not think that you could help me too and at least throw a little light through the dense darkness which surrounds me? --At present it is out of my power to reward you for your services, but in a month (or six weeks!) I shall be married, with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find me ungrateful."
He slipped over to a desk in a corner and consulted a small book from the drawer. "Farintosh. Ah yes, I recall the case. It was concerned with an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson." He shrugged, closing his book. "I can only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own reward. But you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which suits you best." He put away the book and resumed his seat. "And now I beg that you will lay before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the matter."
Form an opinion? I had opinions enough. Our whole county had opinions, the sum of which could resolve nothing. I had two years' worth of doubts and self-doubts on the matter. But I had to begin somewhere.
I sighed. "The very horror of my situation lies in the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that even--" I sounded ridiculous. Did he look at me like Percy did, his eyebrows raised? I struggled against tears, startled by my emotion, "He to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing answers and averted eyes." I whispered, "But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me."
He narrowed his eyes, and his voice became peculiarly hard and distinct. "I am all attention, madam."
I realised then how I had slipped into the old suspicions again, speaking wildly of wickedness and danger as though stepfather were some plotting fiend in a horror novel. How irrational and desperate I was, asking him to perform miracles for me on the basis of small points, trivial facts.
I wanted to leave right then, but Dr. Watson moved nearer to touch my hand and offer his handkerchief. He kept it tucked in his sleeve, like an army man ... like the friends of my father in India. I looked up at his dark, kind eyes, and took his handkerchief. His touch lent strength to me, even as he withdrew it. He looked past me to Mr. Holmes again, and I turned as well.
Mr. Holmes sat with his fingers touched together, waiting. I hurriedly fumbled for my voice. "My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey."
"The name is familiar to me," he said, closing his eyes. Dr. Watson indicated that I should continue all the same. He began taking notes on my words himself, so I supposed that this was their professional routine by which they could at convenience check back over the facts I now recited.
I began telling them of the history of my stepfather, of his ancestors' financial ruin which had driven him to seek his fortune in India, and of his determination and character that had made him the success that my mother met. I spoke of the terrible fit of anger in which he'd brutally beaten the butler to death, earning himself a long imprisonment that ended both his practice and his hopes of coming to great things. I feared perhaps that I might seem to be speaking obscurely in respect to my case, but I could speak no other way.
"When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of my mother's re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of money--not less than £1000 a year--and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely while we resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum should be allowed to each of us in the event of marriage. Shortly after our return to England my mother died--she was killed eight years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his attempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us to live with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which my mother had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness."
Already as I spoke I felt I must be doing a great injustice to my stepfather to conceive such an unwholesome prejudice against him. Surely there was no evidence against him? Surely my mother had been right in her unswerving faith in the man? She would not think ill of him during his eleven-year imprisonment, and told us always to have sympathy and patience concerning his brash temper, as it was founded upon many trying disappointments in his life. She said he was a man of talent, resolve, and intellect, all of which would carry him far in the world. Our mother lost no hope though his had failed him, and in the months before her fatal accident she encouraged him to persevere at his meagre London practice, repeating those words of praise.
True also, Dr. Roylott had once been quite kind to Julia and me. His appeal to us to retire with him to Stoke Moran had been full of the paternal fear that we might find some charming men in London and marry and too quickly leave him without familial company. I also knew it likely that he wished out of pride to feel that he himself, and not our mother's money, was actively supporting us. I had no doubt in his love for us those eight years ago.
"But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time. Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours, who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in the family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom came out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been hereditary in the men of the family, and in my stepfather's case it had, I believe, been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-court, until at last he became the terror of the village, and the folks would fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.
"Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a stream, and it was only by paying over all the money which I could gather together that I was able to avert another public exposure. He had no friends at all save the wandering gypsies, and he would give these vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered land which represent the family estate, and would accept in return the hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes for weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by the villagers almost as much as their master.
"You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had no great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty at the time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to whiten, even as mine has."
"Your sister is dead, then?" said Mr. Holmes, his eyes still closed.
"She died just two years ago," I answered, "and it is of her death that I wish to speak to you." I thought carefully of what I said next, not entirely certain if I still wished to pursue the conversation. "You can understand that, living the life which I have described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother's maiden sister, Miss Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally allowed to pay short visits at this lady's house. Julia went there at Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines, to whom she became engaged." I paused, wondering if he would question the wisdom of Julia's abrupt betrothal. Percy and I certainly had at the time, but she'd been unshaken by such cautions.
Mr. Holmes said nothing.
"My stepfather learned of the engagement when my sister returned, and offered no objection to the marriage. But within a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only companion."
Mr. Holmes half opened his eyes. "Pray be precise as to details."
I shivered. "It is easy for me to be so," I said, "for every event of that dreadful time is seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said, very old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott's, the second my sister's, and the third my own. There is no communication between them, but they all open out into the same corridor. Do I make myself plain?"
"Perfectly so," he said.
"The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left her room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time, chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o'clock she rose to leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back.
"'Tell me, Helen,' said she, 'have you ever heard anyone whistle in the dead of the night?'
"'Never,' said I.
"'I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your sleep?'
"'Certainly not. But why?'
"'Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. You know I am a light sleeper, and it has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from--perhaps from the next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you whether you had heard it.'
"'No, I have not. It must be those wretched gypsies in the plantation.'
"'Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did not hear it also.'
"'Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.'
"'Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.' She smiled back at me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn in the lock."
"Indeed," said Mr. Holmes, raising his hand to halt me. "Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in at night?"
"Always."
"And why?"
"I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept a cheetah and a baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked."
"Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement."
I continued, wishing to hurry to the end, but remembering his request for details. "I could not sleep that night," I said slowly. "A vague feeling of impending misfortune impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind two souls which are so closely allied.
"It was a wild night. The wind was howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the hubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified woman. I knew that it was my sister's voice. I sprang from my bed, wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and a few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen.
"As I ran down the passage, my sister's door was unlocked, and it revolved slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing what was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I saw my sister appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her hands groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that of a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground. She writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully convulsed."
I fought to keep down my tears, finding that the recital of these old facts still affected me deeply. I seemed to relive every moment. I trembled and breathed uneasily into Dr. Watson's handkerchief, catching the sob in my throat.
"At first I thought that she had not recognised me, but as I bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall never forget, 'Oh my God, Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!' There was something else which she would fain have said, and she stabbed with her finger into the air in the direction of the doctor's room, but a fresh convulsion seized her and choked her words.
"I rushed out, calling loudly for my stepfather, and I met him hastening from his room in his dressing-gown. When he reached my sister's side she was unconscious, and though he poured brandy down her throat and sent for medical aid from the village, all efforts were in vain, for she slowly sank and died without having recovered her consciousness. Such was the dreadful end of my beloved sister."
"One moment," said Mr. Holmes, opening his eyes, "are you sure about this whistle and metallic sound? Could you swear to it?"
I shook my head and wept. "That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the gale and the creaking of the old house ... I may possibly have been deceived."
"Was your sister dressed?"
"No," I sniffled, "she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box."
He nodded. "--Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the coroner come to?"
Here I faltered. His continued stare unnerved me. "He investigated the case with great care," I began, then excused, "for Dr. Roylott's conduct had long been notorious in the county...." Mr. Holmes nevertheless watched my face with sharpness, and I looked away. "But he was unable to find any satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had been fastened upon the inside, and the windows were blocked by old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars which were secured every night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone when she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon her."
"How about poison?"
"The doctors examined her for it, but without success."
"What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?"
"It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine."
"Were there gypsies in the plantation at the time?"
"Yes, there are nearly always some there."
"Ah," he sat up, "and what did you gather from this allusion to a band--a speckled band?"
"Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of delirium," I hesitated, "sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people, perhaps to these very gypsies in the plantation. I do not know whether the spotted kerchiefs which so many of them wear over their heads might have suggested the strange adjective which she used."
Mr. Holmes shook his head, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. He sat back again. "These are very deep waters. Pray go on with your narrative."
"Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend whom I have known for many years has done me the honour to ask my hand in marriage. His name is Armitage--Percy Armitage--the second son of Mr. Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has offered no opposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of the spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of the building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have had to move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very bed in which she slept." I shook involuntarily, whispering. "Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had been the herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed again, however, so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead, from whence I have come on this morning with the one object of seeing you and asking your advice."
"You have done wisely," he nodded. He folded his hands and peered at me as I dabbed the handkerchief to my final tears. "But have you told me all?" he asked.
"Yes, all." I breathed a little more calmly and blinked my eyes dry.
Mr. Holmes sat forward. "Miss Roylott," he said, rather strangely, "you have not. You are screening your stepfather."
I stared. "Why, what do you mean?"
Mr. Holmes reached across my lap and pushed back the lace from my right hand. The bruise of my stepfather's grip still showed plainly on my wrist.
"You have been cruelly used," he said.
I pulled back from him and covered it again quickly. How did he see that? Why should a young man as he see so clearly how foolish I had been? How I, a grown woman, had shrunk in fear from my own stepfather?
I could not face his eyes. "He is a hard man," I whispered, "and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength."
Mr. Holmes did not say anything, and he turned towards the fire. I was relieved to be free of his unnerving gaze. Indeed, I wished he had kept his eyes closed during the whole interview. Surely this was how their interviewing routine became established, to spare undue anxiety to their clients? Dr. Watson touched me again then, leaning closer with a look of sympathy and a frown of concern for my injury. However, at my discomfort he released me and took back his handkerchief in silence. He looked elsewhere too, and I slunk uncomfortably into my chair.
At last Mr. Holmes turned his head to us. "This is a very deep business. There are a thousand details which I should desire to know before I decide upon our course of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to Stoke Moran today, would it be possible for us to see over these rooms without the knowledge of your stepfather?"
"As it happens, he spoke of coming into town today upon some most important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper now, but she is old and foolish [Arghh! There must be some way to keep her from sounding pompous and mean here! Perhaps Roylott deliberately hired an easily muddled housekeeper lacking enough astuteness to see or interfere with his plot.], and I could easily get her out of the way."
"Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?"
"By no means."
"Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?" he asked me.
"I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in town. But I shall return by the twelve o'clock train, so as to be there in time for your coming."
"And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some small business matters to attend to. --Will you not wait and breakfast?"
I paused in my rising, finding his hand upon mine a surprise. He had a peculiarly direct gaze when his voice intensified on a certain point.
"No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this afternoon." I lowered my veil and quickly exited.
Outside on the street I in fact headed first for a restaurant in which to dine. I felt better to be free of the close atmosphere of the flat, and I didn't feel it appropriate to intrude on my hosts any longer, even by invitation.
I had mixed feelings about Mr. Holmes, overall. He was such an odd person, with a lean frame and intense features which resembled those of a keen raptor or hound on the hunt. Mrs. Farintosh had warned me that he was startling and generally cold in his manner, but that he was really very kind and helpful. I supposed that she was right. Dr. Watson had been so silent and withdrawn that I could not distinctly form an opinion of him. His dark, alert eyes followed us very closely, and his hand was most forceful and quick as he wrote. How had the detective entered into partnership with a doctor?
I stirred my cup. My reflection in the polished surface of the tea service was quite pale, even to the lips, and I must have appeared so when the detective asked me to stay. But I had felt faint more because of the flat than anything else, and was simply relieved to have discussed my sister's death in earnest. I was not yet sure if I should be convinced that my stepfather was guilty of anything whatsoever, but I was glad to have someone come investigate and give an objective opinion on the matter.
My talk with Mrs. Farintosh just three weeks before had been too coloured by my suspicions, I feared. She had congratulated me, as had everyone at Aunt Honoria's, on my engagement to Percy. One of my aunt's new friends, she was very gregarious and talkative. She soon began a friendly interrogation of me on the history of my romance with Percy. She occasionally clapped her hands with pleasure at all the charming details I told her. Then I made a stray comment about my twin, and her inquisitive nature soon turned the conversation to the fate of Julia.
Mrs. Farintosh listened to my account with grave interest and concern. "Is it all true?" she asked, horror-stricken. Both she and I were shivering after I'd painted the vivid image of my sister's terrible, unsolved death. "But how can you live with him?" she asked softly, already as impressed as I was with a dread of my stepfather.
"He's done nothing," I said slowly. "It's been two years--"
"But don't you fear? Don't you ever wonder?" she insisted. "And now," her voice lowered, "with this...." She touched the ring on my hand.
I turned from her gaze, but I knew I hid nothing. "He only has a temper, that's all," I said stubbornly. "He's unpleasant, violent, and frightening. Everyone naturally suspected him. The police probed him warily. But in the end the coroner found nothing against him. Nothing!" Despite my emotions, I was determined at least to keep my facts clear. "There's no proof to connect him with anything."
"My dear," she said gently, "I know I am not one to advise you. Why, if your Aunt Norrie trusts him with you...."
With a sudden thought, she rose and scrambled for a sheet of paper, scribbling on it decisively. "Here is the address of someone who might help you. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a detective. No, don't be cross! I wouldn't give you his name if I had not a true faith in him. He is most excellent, most amazing. I have not words enough to describe him! --Oh ignore the wild claims of a nosy old biddy, if you must, but do take this address. Take it! to humour me. Now do hold on to it. Keep it somewhere that you'll remember. Do promise a foolish, anxious old matron that you'll think of this discussion if ever you are in trouble. Do remember this name if ever you have a need for advice, for a little kindness and counsel." She shrugged, "Perhaps I am entirely wrong about your stepfather. But it eases my mind to think, in any circumstances that may arise, that dear Honoria's niece might be aided and watched over by the same able guardian I once had. He was most good to me, my dear, I assure you. He was most good to me when I thought I would never hold my head up again."
She told me a few details of her case, but spent more time elaborating on the remarkable man himself. Then Mrs. Farintosh said goodnight.
I swallowed the last of my tea, then rose and stretched my legs. The meal had warmed me considerably, making the chill April morning seem more fresh and inviting than it had seemed at dawn. I paid and left, putting down my veil again as I stepped out the door. I found a hansom and got in, heading for a milliner's I knew.
At noon I caught the train home. I put my parcels above me and sat quietly, trying to steel myself for Stoke Moran.
I thought again of the detective, feeling faintly puzzled.
She hadn't mentioned his youth. His voice, his postures, his coldness--not his youth. How could Mrs. Farintosh speak of his wisdom, his insight, and his expertise if he was so young? How could she regard him as a beacon of light, a paternal benefactor, a miracle worker? Surely Percy would never believe that I'd consulted such a person.
I sighed, shaking my head. It was too late to regret anything. At least it was a little better than my running in hysterics to the police, only to receive no real help and no easier relationship with my stepfather.
I came home and found only Mrs. Beale about, preparing luncheon. She said that stepfather would definitely be gone until evening.
"Why did you leave so early, Miss?" she asked, sitting down with me at the kitchen table. "I was so startled when you woke me this morning! I didn't believe my ears for a little while. Then I threw on my shawl and I came straight out, and what with the door thrown open and the doctor coming back in just then, muttering about 'that impertinent girl,' I was quite unsettled. I asked him what the screaming was about, and he just scowled at me, saying, 'Go read the note in her room!' Ooh, he was in such an awful temper! He turned on his heel and went into his room, rummaging for clothes. Then he shouted at me to get together a cold breakfast and a train schedule, so he could see what train you might have took."
I looked up from my plate. "My train?"
"Yes! Silly, isn't it? He finally tossed the schedule aside in frustration and stormed out the door, all shaking his head and swinging his hunting crop and pounding his footsteps straight over to the Crown." She nodded with finality.
I stopped sipping my coffee. "What--he did not return?"
"No, Miss, he certainly didn't."
"He went to the train station then?" I said unsteadily.
"Yes. Where else, Miss?"
"He was not long after me?"
"Well, about twenty after six."
"But surely it means he will return from London before evening?"
"No. Whatever time he left here, he didn't change his business appointments for the day. He didn't even mention trying. He's booked into the evening. I thought that he meant to find you some time this morning and to scold you again. I didn't think he'd be successful, though. Not likely, after all. You didn't see him today, did you?"
"No."
"Right," she nodded. After a moment she frowned and spoke involuntarily in a whisper, the whisper that had become our habit when we expressed our more uncertain fears of Dr. Roylott. "I just wonder at his getting so angry, Miss," she said slowly, her green eyes darting. "I guess he's not used to being defied, in any little thing. He's just gotten so very sensitive, my dear, as your marriage gets closer."
I nodded, and for a moment we were silent.
Then she sat up and patted my hand in her motherly way. "Now don't keep up this practice of early rising, my dear!" she said in a brighter tone. "Other than it agitating Dr. Roylott terribly, it's not good to upset your sleeping habits."
End of part 1. Part 2.