The Labyrinth of Death Page 10

  “I was about to make the very same observation,” Holmes said. “The ‘thumb’ of the clasp has fallen out, which is liable to happen if the spring mechanism becomes faulty but also if the necklace is wrenched hard. Therefore one cannot determine with any degree of certainty how the necklace came to be detached from Sophia’s person. It could have been an accident. It could equally have been the result of manhandling.”

  “What is beyond argument is that Sophia is not at liberty,” Hannah said, clutching the item of jewellery to her breast like some religious totem. “Otherwise she would be out looking for the necklace unrelentingly. Which in turn implies that she is still at Charfrome – somewhere on the estate – or else likely to return there in the near future. In either case, I have no choice but to stay put. I must maintain the guise of Shirley Holbrook, while covertly hunting for further traces of Sophia.” She looked momentarily sheepish. “By the way, I hope you do not mind, Mr Holmes, that I have appropriated a version of your name for my alias. I am, it goes without saying, an admirer of yours, and I wear ‘Shirley Holbrook’ as a kind of armour. At the risk of sounding silly, I feel that I am acting as a distaff Sherlock Holmes, and I am doing my best to bring your methods of reasoning and logical analysis to bear on this problem. Not, I might add, that I could dream of being your equal in that sphere.”

  Holmes made an amenable gesture. “You are free to use the name, Miss Woolfson. That is: Miss Holbrook. I consider it an accolade. I am bound to point out, however, that there is an alternative hypothesis for that necklace to be lacking an owner – a dark and troubling one.”

  “I am aware of it,” Hannah said, choking back emotion. “I refuse to countenance it as yet. Sophia is alive and well. I simply have not yet determined where she is, that is all.”

  My friend’s mouth set in a grim line. “This puts me in a dilemma, Hannah,” he said. “I take it I may address you thus, and Watson may too?”

  “You may, sir. Both of you. How does it put you in a dilemma?”

  “Consider things from my viewpoint. I, like you, am not convinced that the goings-on at Charfrome are as innocuous as they appear. There is a whiff of rottenness about the place. My conscience is telling me that I should not allow you to remain there. The jeopardy is too great.”

  “I concur,” I said.

  “At the same time,” Holmes continued, “I do not believe for one moment that you will voluntarily abandon your search for Sophia, whatever the potential hazards, until it yields results.”

  “You would not be wrong there,” said Hannah.

  “Watson and I could, of course, compel you to return home to your father.”

  The girl’s face hardened, betraying a hint of a sneer. Her fists clenched. “I should like to see you try.”

  “Tut! I was merely giving vent to an idea. I am not the sort of man to oblige anyone to do something against their will. Neither is Watson.”

  She unbent somewhat. “Doubtless the pair of you could overpower me, but it would not be without cost to yourselves.”

  “We are duly warned. What I propose instead is this: an alliance.”

  “Go on.”

  “I cannot venture back into Charfrome. Nor can Watson. We have blotted our copybook with Buchanan. We would be personae non gratae were we to set foot on his land again.”

  “I can well imagine.”

  “We got away unscathed this time. Next time, we might not be so lucky. Buchanan made that clear to us when he directed Hart and Quigg to chaperon us to the gate. It was civilised but it was an eviction nonetheless. You, on the other hand, Hannah, have inveigled yourself into the Elysians’ midst very artfully, and so far no suspicion has attached itself to you. Buchanan, indeed, is quite taken with you, to the point where I think he has come to regard you as a protégée. Together we may exploit that.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “You become my spy in the Elysian camp. You continue your search for your friend but also broaden the scope of your investigation. You learn everything you can about the Elysians, and report back to me with your findings.”

  “How?”

  “By letter. There is a post office in Waterton Parva. Can you manage, do you think, to steal away from Charfrome on a regular basis to send me a letter from there?”

  “I don’t see why not. It will not be easy but it will not be impossible either, as I have just proven.”

  “Good. You know my address, of course. I in return will leave replies for you poste restante. They will be waiting for you at the post office, to pick up as and when you visit. I will endeavour to offer you guidance and suggest actions you might take in the light of the content of your reports. Does that sound agreeable?”

  Hannah’s face was lit up with enthusiasm. “I am to operate as your agent, then?”

  “Precisely. My woman on the inside. My Trojan Horse.”

  “Holmes,” I piped up, “I cannot condone this. Able and accomplished as Miss Woolfson is – excuse me – as Hannah is, you may very well be putting her in harm’s way. You and I have far greater experience in these matters and are better equipped to face the perils.”

  “Your gallantry does you credit, Watson, but she is more than up to the task.”

  “You took the words out of my mouth, Mr Holmes,” Hannah said.

  “What I am doing is making the best of adverse circumstances,” Holmes said. “You will recall that I did something not dissimilar just this April: the affair at Charlington Hall in Surrey, when Miss Violet Smith was shadowed by a bearded cyclist as she pedalled her own machine to Farnham railway station every Saturday. Then, I miscalculated the severity of the situation and left Miss Smith more or less unprotected.”

  “Unprotected?” I said. “You despatched me to keep an eye on her.”

  “A job I should have performed myself, and later did. I mean no disrespect. Even so, Miss Smith impressed me with her fortitude during the unfolding of the case and in its aftermath. She exhibited considerable strength of character, especially in the way she recovered from her molestation by that ruffian Jack Woodley. The young lady before us is cut from the same cloth. I am sure she is capable of fielding whatever slings and arrows come her way. Do we have a deal, Hannah?”

  “We most definitely do.”

  “My one stipulation is that I am allowed to tell your father that I have found you.”

  “I cannot see that being a problem. You must be careful, though, not to let him know what we have just agreed.”

  “I shall gauge it so that he knows you are well and your safety is being monitored, and that he is content with that.”

  “Nor must Papa learn where I am. If he does, it is likely he will come and take me away, before I have a chance to find out what has befallen Sophia. That is the kind of father he is.” She spoke with fondness but also a touch of chagrin.

  “You can rely on me to handle him appropriately.”

  “I know that I can. And now I really must be going. I have lingered as long as I dare. Mr Holmes.” She shook his hand firmly. “It is an honour to be collaborating with you. I shall not let you down. And Dr Watson?” Her hands, both of them, gently enfolded mine. “Please do not fret. That handsome brow of yours is creased with worry, and while it is appreciated, it is not warranted. I can look after myself. If you will not take my word for it, take your friend’s. Mr Holmes is vouching for me. That should suffice.”

  She turned and loped off into the forest, skipping over exposed tree roots as agilely as any doe.

  Holmes and I waited until she was out of sight before wending our way back to the road. Misgiving churned within me. I was deeply unhappy at the arrangement Holmes had reached with Hannah. I hoped he would not live to regret it.

  But what also lodged in my mind were the words she had uttered, even as her hands clasped mine, transmitting warmth from her to me.

  That handsome brow of yours.

  It left me all the more enthralled by her, and all the more ardently solicitous of her welf
are.

  PART II

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE HUGE ONUS OF PARENTHOOD

  “Wha-a-at?”

  This loud expostulation came from Sir Osbert Woolfson the very next day, in his study in Mayfair. Holmes had just informed him of the arrangement he had reached with Hannah. Woolfson was, to put it mildly, not best pleased.

  “Why, sir, you impudent knave,” he spluttered, rising from his desk. “I hire you to find my daughter and return her to me, and you stand there and tell me that you have ascertained her whereabouts but will not fulfil the second part of the remit. You have a damned nerve, I must say. Where is she? I demand to know.”

  My friend remained unflappable. “Sir Osbert, believe me when I insist that I only have Hannah’s best interests at heart. She needs to be where she is right now, and she needs to remain there for the foreseeable future. It will serve her ill otherwise.”

  “Who are you to deem what are and are not her best interests?” said Woolfson, moving out from behind the desk with clear menace. “I am her father. No one is better placed than I to make such judgements. Again I ask you, where is my daughter?”

  “I cannot betray that confidence. Rest assured I shall oversee her every move and take full responsibility for her welfare.”

  “Oh, you will, will you? And I am just supposed to accept that and be content?”

  “I am hoping as much.”

  “And you, Dr Watson.” Woolfson rounded on me. “You have no difficulty with this? I imagine a physician understands the meaning of ‘duty of care’ better than most. You are happy to go along with your friend’s point-blank refusal to reveal where Hannah is?”

  I shifted my feet uncomfortably. “Sherlock Holmes has never failed a client yet.”

  “See that?” Woolfson snapped, swinging back towards Holmes. “Even your stalwart Boswell has his qualms. For the third and final time, tell me where Hannah is. Now!”

  The last word was more of a roar than anything, and it was delivered from within inches of Holmes’s face. Holmes kept up his fixed expression of imperturbability. I myself had often found this rather arrogant behaviour of his aggravating, and it was having the same effect upon Woolfson, if not a worse.

  “If all is to be allowed to resolve to its best conclusion,” Holmes said, “then I must politely decline to answer.”

  Woolfson was almost apoplectic. “I should have you horsewhipped, you rogue! Have the truth beaten out of you! In fact…”

  No horsewhip was to hand, but a poker lay in the hearth. Woolfson snatched it up and brandished it before Holmes’s nose.

  “Sir Osbert, a member of the Bench such as yourself must surely realise that to threaten violence is a felony.”

  “Do I look like I care? Hannah is what matters, and if you will not willingly surrender the information I desire, then it will have to be unwillingly, and to the devil with the consequences.”

  Holmes’s hand flashed out, almost faster than the eye could see, and he wrested the poker from Woolfson’s grasp with a single deft flick of the wrist. Then, before the judge’s astonished gaze, he bent the iron implement with the power of his arms alone, curving it until its two ends crossed over. He offered the loop of metal back to Woolfson, who took it with a defeated air, his mouth downturned.

  The display of main force – Holmes possessed a strength surprising in one so gaunt and wiry – seemed to deprive Woolfson of all momentum. He dropped his hands, the now useless poker dangling from one of them. His anger subsided as quickly as it had swelled; all at once he was close to tears.

  “I see it is a hopeless cause,” he said. “I detect the hand of my daughter in this. Would I be right? She has constrained you to keep a secret, and you have acquiesced, as all do before her.”

  Holmes let slip a small, sombre smile. “The arrangement was reached by mutual consent. We shall leave it at that. I swear to you, Sir Osbert, that should I feel even for a moment that the situation warrants revising, I will take the appropriate measures post-haste.”

  “It appears I have no alternative,” Woolfson said, discarding the poker and retreating back to his desk. “You are both of you childless men. You can have no comprehension what it is like to be a parent – especially the sole remaining parent. The onus is huge. However old she is, Hannah is still my little girl. The apple of my eye. Not to know where she is or what she has got herself into…”

  At this I very nearly confessed all to Woolfson. My friend seemed to sense that I was on the verge of undermining his decision. A sharp application of the side of his toecap to my shin conveyed his thoughts about that. Not for the first time I found myself chafing under a rebuke from Holmes. In this instance, however, I did not feel that I deserved it, and it rankled me.

  Woolfson sat down, planted his elbows on the desk blotter and sank his head into his hands, the picture of dejection.

  “Just be true to your word, Mr Holmes, I implore you,” he said softly, not looking up. “Were I to lose Hannah as well as my Margaret, and so soon after, well, I do not know what I would do.”

  He said no more, and we considered ourselves dismissed. Already I pitied the fellow, but as we exited his study I heard the sound of a drawer of the desk opening and a bottle being taken out and uncorked, and my compassion intensified, as did my resentment of Holmes.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  PORTRAITS OF HELL

  My mood did not lift once Holmes and I were ensconced in Baker Street again. Over the next few days the sun shone brightly on London, but a sullen darkness festered within me. With each delivery of the post I anticipated a letter from Hannah Woolfson, proof positive that she was alive and thriving. I scanned the envelopes after Holmes had slit each open using his jack-knife, the one with which he also fastened unanswered correspondence to the mantelpiece. None bore a Dorset postmark.

  For Holmes it was business as usual, which irked me all the more. When he wasn’t carrying out noisome experiments at his acid-charred chemistry bench, he was scraping merrily away at his violin or poring over sheaves of newspapers and taking clippings. Once, he even indulged in his regrettable habit of conducting target practice indoors, emptying his revolver into the wall, which brought a barrage of complaint both from Mrs Hudson and from our next-door neighbour, several of whose mural-mounted ornaments were dislodged from their fixtures by the bullet impacts from the other side. If Holmes was worried about Hannah, he did not show it, unless this constant occupation was merely a way of diverting himself.

  Clients, as ever, came and went. I would sit there listening to them as they poured their hearts out to Holmes and besought his help, but I felt wholly detached from their various plights.

  “It is, Mr Holmes, a family heirloom of some pecuniary worth but even greater sentimental value. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when an artist friend came to visit last weekend, a Fellow of the Royal Academy, and insisted to me that it is a fake, and a clumsy reproduction at that…”

  “This would not be the first time the rascal has threatened me, and he spelled out in no uncertain terms what would happen if I did not share with him the secret of what he calls ‘the Four Hundred Swords of Fire’. Yet for the life of me I cannot fathom to what that phrase might refer…”

  “I was enjoying a perfectly ordinary Sunday luncheon with my friends the Abernettys when the maid came in, ashen-faced and terribly distressed, babbling something about melting butter and a sprig of parsley, although this was merely a foretaste of the horrors to come…”

  It was not that I was indifferent to these people, many of whom turned up at our door in a state of high anxiety, zealous for the balm of Sherlock Holmes’s attentions. I simply could not get Hannah out of my thoughts. More than once I entertained the notion of travelling to Dorset on my own recognisance and storming the gates of Charfrome Old Place, brooking no obstacle until she was back in London and under her father’s roof again. I daresay neither she nor Holmes would have forgiven me if I had followed through on such an action, but I believe
d I could live with the ignominy.

  It was on the fifth day that a letter at last arrived. I happened to be out on my rounds at the time. Although I had sold my Kensington connection shortly after Holmes’s “return from the dead”, I retained a select rump of patients both from that practice and from my Paddington days. Without wishing to flatter myself, some of them were adamant that they would be seen by no physician but me. A large proportion of them, furthermore, were happy to pay over the odds for treatment, and frankly I could not afford to turn down the money. I could not live solely off the capital from the sale, nor could I bring myself to have Holmes support me as a dependant.

  My last port of call that day, the widow Wyngarde, fell into the lucrative category but was also one of the more tedious entrants on my list. The lady was in the habit of fabricating all manner of ailments in order to get me to her house, whereupon she would unfailingly make amorous advances towards me, pointing out that she was rich and lonely and in want of a husband and I was an accomplished and celebrated professional in want of a wife and that somehow a union between us was meant to be.

  When I came home, Holmes gave no indication that the epistolary drought, as it were, was ended. He sat in the window seat smoking his briar pipe, his beady gaze directed upon the traffic and pedestrians clattering by in the street below. The afternoon was infernally hot. It is fair to say that Baker Street was baking, and I mopped my brow as I collapsed into the chair opposite his.

  “I see, Watson,” said he, “that you have just enjoyed the company of a certain hypochondriac about whom you have complained to me more than once. If your harried demeanour were not sufficient indication, you have a crumb of Madeira cake clinging to your moustache. You are not in the habit of eating said cake except when Mrs Ada Wyngarde plies you with it, and if you had visited another patient subsequently, doubtless the offending addendum would have been brought to your notice and you would have removed it. Really you ought not to indulge the woman. Have some other general practitioner take her on. At the very least do not accept the sweetmeats she tempts you with. It is as though you are a stray dog and she is bribing you with titbits, gradually winning your trust. If you are not careful, you may end up being adopted, with the collar tight around your neck.”