The Labyrinth of Death Page 3

  I began to grow uncomfortable. I felt that simply by being in this room we were already prying pruriently into Hannah Woolfson’s life. By reading her letters so extensively, however, Holmes was going further than that.

  “Holmes,” I said, “is this really necessary?”

  “It is more than necessary, Watson. It is vital. The Scotland Yarders did not think to examine these letters. Am I not right, Sir Osbert?”

  “They were thorough but not, to my recollection, that thorough.”

  “Of course they were not. And if they had elected to examine the letters, they would certainly not have returned them to the cubbyholes in the orderly and methodical arrangement in which I found them. Hannah has been scrupulous in her filing. The letters are all alphabetised from left to right by name of correspondent and, within each category, organised by date. Policemen, who when it comes to combing a premises for evidence behave not unlike chimpanzees, would never have been so punctilious about replacing them.”

  I was still uneasy about violating Hannah’s privacy. In order to stave off my embarrassment I went outside and took a turn around the streets for an hour or so, leaving Holmes to his business, under Woolfson’s watchful eye. By the time I returned, my friend had completed his perusal.

  “Well,” I said, “what have you gleaned from the correspondence?”

  “Much that is useless but some that is not. Again and again I have come across references to a friend of Hannah’s, a certain Sophia Tompkins.”

  “A girl she first met at boarding school,” said Woolfson. “The two were close, very close when young. ‘Thick as thieves’, Margaret used to say about them. They have remained on cordial terms since, although they see each other seldom. Sophia lives in Dorset, where she works as a governess for the children of a prosperous importer.”

  “Yes, that jibes with what I have been able to gather from my reading. The mentions of Miss Tompkins crop up exclusively in the letters from others who were at the same school, Cheltenham Ladies’ College. Little can be deduced about her from context other than that a solid bond exists between her and Hannah. Which raises a question.”

  “Namely?” I said.

  “Well, Watson, if the two young women were – are – such bosom companions, why are there no letters to Hannah from Sophia herself present in this assemblage?” He swept a hand across the various sheaves of writing paper. “I have been through them all and found not one. It is a singular and surprising lacuna. Here is somebody who excels as a practitioner of the epistolary art and is in regular contact with numerous intimates and not-so-intimates, but of this one particular friend, allegedly so dear to her, there is no sign.”

  “Maybe Hannah and Sophia had a falling-out.”

  “That is not even hinted at in any of the letters. On the contrary, in one of them the writer makes it clear that Sophia attended the funeral of Lady Margaret and was seen giving Hannah support.”

  “It is true,” said Woolfson. “Sophia came up from Dorset for the ceremony and stayed overnight afterwards. It was the last time the two of them were together, to my knowledge. But, now that I think about it, Dr Watson may be correct – there was some sort of disagreement between them.”

  Holmes cocked an eyebrow. “Tell me more.”

  “I don’t remember much about it. That day – the entire period – remains something of a blur. But there were words between Sophia and my daughter on the morning after the funeral; that I do recall. A spat of some kind. I was not privy to it. It happened while they were breakfasting. Having awoken early, I had already eaten by then and was alone in my study. If they raised their voices, I did not hear, but I do know that Hannah was in high dudgeon afterwards, while Sophia left the house precipitately, without a goodbye. I did not think much of it at the time. I should perhaps have asked Hannah to explain what had upset her, why she and Sophia had so clearly argued, but…” He spread out his hands. “I had my own preoccupations. I simply took it for a passing squall – emotions run high at times of tragedy – and assumed the two of them would make amends sooner or later. Thereafter, the incident slipped altogether from my mind, until now.”

  “Could it have been a more serious contretemps than it appeared?” I hazarded. “Could it even have prompted Hannah to burn every letter Sophia had written to her, out of pique?”

  “That would account for their absence,” Holmes said. “But there is a curious feature about escritoires such as this one. They are often more than they seem. The example here dates back to the early eighteen-hundreds, I believe.”

  “It is an old family heirloom,” said Woolfson. “It first belonged to my great-great-great-grandmother.”

  “Back then it was not uncommon for the lady of the house – and the desk’s smaller dimensions and ornate marquetry signal it as the property of a lady – to wish to keep certain correspondence hidden from her husband, love letters and the like. Not, I hasten to add, that I am attributing any impropriety to your thrice-great-grandmother, Sir Osbert. The practice among joiners was, nonetheless, always to include a secret compartment where such letters might be stowed safely, without risk of discovery.”

  “It would be news to me if there were one in this desk,” Woolfson averred.

  Holmes bent to the escritoire. “Observe the panel just below the cubbyholes and above the writing surface. Seems innocuous enough, does it not? A solid, immoveable part of the construction. Along its upper edge, however, are some tiny scrape marks. And if we tap it – like so – it sounds hollower and looser than it ought to be. Now all one has to do is press carefully here, or perhaps here, or here, until…”

  His probing fingers triggered an unseen spring-catch, and the panel dropped outward on a pair of hinged arms.

  “Well, blow me down,” Woolfson exclaimed.

  In the small cavity thus exposed was a stack of more letters, several dozen all told.

  “Voilà,” said Holmes, extracting these and rifling through them. “The hand is feminine. The letterheads bear a Dorset address. The sender is none other than Sophia Tompkins. Let us see what the young lady has to say for herself.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A KIND OF PURDAH

  Initially the letters from Sophia were much like the rest, in so far as they were chatty, superficial and, for our present purposes, unrewarding. Holmes perused them one after another, with mounting impatience. I began to wonder if this would all be a fruitless exercise. Could it be that Hannah had tucked the letters away inside the secret compartment for no other reason than resentment of Sophia? Her friend had slighted her and she wanted the letters out of sight so that she would not be reminded of the offence, a symbolic banishment?

  Then the scowl that was deepening on Holmes’s brow smoothed out and a small smile touched his lips.

  “This is more like it. The letter is dated the fourteenth of August, a little under a year ago. It seems that your wife, Sir Osbert, was taken ill around then.”

  “That is when she received the diagnosis. It was a cancer of the stomach. The doctor predicted she had mere weeks to live. Margaret was made of stern stuff, though. She lasted until Christmas.”

  “Sophia writes with tenderness and sensitivity. ‘How awful this must be for you, dear Hannah. Know that you and both your parents are in my thoughts and prayers.’ She goes on to say, ‘The ways of the world are strange and sometimes appear inimical to happiness. I am beginning to learn, however, that the cruelties of existence may be overcome and even surpassed. I cannot expand on that statement at the moment, but I feel that I am on the cusp of a great discovery – an adventure such as we used to talk about in the dormitory at school. Remember that, Hannah? How you and I would huddle beneath the bedcovers together after lights out and talk about the future and the remarkable things we might do with our lives? Just such an opportunity is in prospect for me, and I am inclined to grasp it and embrace it, however much it scares me to do so.’”

  Holmes thumbed through to the next letter.

  “Hannah evi
dently requested clarification,” he said, “because here we have some development of the hints Sophia dropped in her last communication. ‘There is, nearby, a place. Such a wonderful place. I have visited it as the guest of a young man who attended the Duprees’ summer ball.’”

  “Dupree,” said Woolfson. “That’s the chap Sophia is governess for. Humbert Dupree. Sugar merchant with interests in the West Indies.”

  “‘You would approve of him, Hannah, this young man. His name is Edwin and he is very handsome but, more to the point, he is progressive. He holds views about the world that are not dissimilar to yours. He seems wise beyond his years; I would even go so far as to call him enlightened. He came to pick me up in a liveried brougham the day before yesterday, and our exchanges on the journey to our destination were not only lively but uplifting and inspiring. And oh, when we got there! Words alone can hardly do justice to what I saw. I really should not go into it in any further depth. Edwin has insisted I keep it under my hat. But I am convinced I have found paradise, Hannah. Heaven on Earth!’”

  “Paradise?” I echoed. “Heaven on Earth? What is all this?”

  “Questions Hannah herself must have asked,” said Holmes, rifling through more papers and scanning through the words with his quick eye, “but perhaps with some asperity, for Sophia, in her subsequent missive, adopts a defensive posture. ‘You would have me betray a confidence, and that is something I am not prepared to do. I will say that I have gone with Edwin a second time to the place I mentioned and am no less enraptured with it than I was before. You advise me to be wary of him. “He sounds too good to be true” – your exact words, Hannah. Well, just because you have no great regard for men does not mean all men are bad. Could it be that I discern a note of jealousy there? You would not have me liking, and being liked by, Edwin when you yourself have such high standards for a mate that you will probably never find one who can meet them. Rest assured that Edwin and his associates and what they have to offer are everything I could hope for, and more.’”

  “Sophia sounds smitten,” I averred.

  “Yes, Watson. This Edwin is obviously a paragon. The next letter is dated November the twenty-first. Some time has passed. Sophia says she has been slow to reply to Hannah’s last letter: ‘such was the censorious tone you took. It is not until today that I have been able to compose myself and clear my thoughts. You were always the clever one at school, I just a bumbling old duffer by comparison. There were times when I felt you looked down on me, and I feel that again now, most keenly. Anyway, I am dismayed to hear that your dear mama is fading and that she is so enfeebled and listless. It raises in my mind the spectre of my own poor late mother, and my late father too. At least you have the good fortune of being able to make your peace with her and being there with her in her final days, a privilege I was denied with my own parents and their abrupt, unexpected passing. Please do keep me abreast of the situation. I remain a true friend, I hope you know that, and I harbour you no ill will. I myself feel blessed these days and wish I could somehow share that blessedness with you.’”

  Holmes closed the letter.

  “‘Edwin and his associates’,” I quoted. “Clearly he is part of some larger entity, some league or club.”

  “So it would appear,” said Holmes, glancing momentarily up from the pages. “Now we hop forward to January. Your wife died when, Sir Osbert?”

  “Mid-December.”

  “This comes after the funeral, then, and the breakfast-time argument. Yes. Sophia is not contrite. ‘Your words stung me, Hannah, but perhaps not as much as the contempt in your eyes. I was merely attempting to explain myself, to justify my decision, and you bit me like a viper. My mind is made up and I will not be dissuaded. I came to your mother’s funeral not only to pay my respects to the departed and offer you my shoulder to cry on, but in the hope that you and I might set aside our differences, to share with you my growing strength and demonstrate how much better a person I already am than I once was. (I anticipate becoming even more improved in the weeks and months ahead.) I came, in short, to lay all my cards on the table. Yet, shrewishly, you rounded on me. I opened up to you – about Edwin, about Sir Philip, about the Elysians – and I can see in hindsight that I was foolish to have done so. I expected more from you. More compassion, more understanding. Instead all I got was blind, wilful spite. What has become of the open-minded, far-sighted Hannah Woolfson I once knew? She has turned priggish and myopic. You said you fear for my wellbeing. What you actually fear for, if you want my opinion, is yourself. You see me broadening my horizons and embarking on a journey that will surely lead to greater self-knowledge and the unlocking of my full potential, and you wish you had the same courage. The truth is you are hidebound. You have painted yourself into a corner and know your chances of escaping it are diminishing daily. Trapped as you are, it galls you to see someone like me who is taking a daring step into the unknown and, if everything goes well, towards freedom.’”

  “What step?” I said. “A ‘decision’. What is she talking about?”

  “It is all somewhat nebulous,” Holmes allowed. “Had we but been there when Hannah and Sophia argued, we would be able to fill in the blanks. But words like ‘Sir Philip’ and ‘the Elysians’ at least give us some handholds to cling on to. I don’t suppose they ring any bells with you, Sir Osbert?”

  Woolfson shook his head. “Regrettably, no.”

  “You are not familiar with any Sir Philip?”

  “None is known to me socially.”

  “There remain two further letters,” Holmes said. “The hand on both is not Sophia’s. The signatory instead is Mrs Humbert Dupree. The first is short and to the point. ‘My dear Miss Woolfson. Sophia Tompkins is no longer in our employ. She left our service in April, having given notice in March. It was all perfectly amicable, Sophia doing us the courtesy of remaining in her position until we had interviewed candidates to take over from her and selected the best of them for the role. However, she left no forwarding address, and I am afraid it was not until yesterday that your last three letters to her were discovered by her replacement, buried at the back of a drawer in her bureau. I would be surprised that Sophia did not see fit to inform you of her change in circumstance, were it not for the fact that the letters were unopened. Yours faithfully, Mrs Humbert Dupree.’”

  Holmes held up the final letter.

  “The second from Mrs Dupree. This one is even more curt. ‘I cannot help you any further on the subject of Sophia Tompkins. Her status and whereabouts are no longer any business of mine.’”

  “This is all very cryptic, Holmes,” I said, “and rather sad, but what bearing can it possibly have on Hannah’s disappearance?”

  “The date, Watson. Consider the date of this last letter from Mrs Dupree.”

  “It is ten days ago.”

  “Ten days. And Hannah has been missing for eight. Do you not think that there may be some connection? That the one thing may have had a direct influence upon the other?”

  “My goodness,” said Woolfson. He sank into a chair as though he no longer had the strength to hold himself erect. “Are you saying what I think you are saying, Mr Holmes?”

  “It remains conjecture, but conjecture built on a firm foundation. Your daughter has not been abducted or murdered. She has not been the victim of some sinister conspiracy or dire misfortune. Rather, she was the active agent in her departure. She has gone looking for Sophia Tompkins.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WOOLFSON’S STILETTO

  Sir Osbert Woolfson, for the first time since we had made his acquaintance, became sanguine.

  “You mean she has acted out of concern for her friend?” said he. “Out of fear for Sophia’s wellbeing? That is what has happened?”

  “It is far from the only logical interpretation of the facts, but it is the likeliest,” replied Holmes. “One may infer from Sophia’s letters that Hannah was uncomfortable about this Edwin person and felt that his intentions towards Sophia might not be wholly honou
rable. Equally, these Elysians – whoever or whatever they are – did not meet with Hannah’s approval. Once she learned that Sophia had quit her position with the Duprees, her apprehension deepened. Her assumption must have been, as mine is, that Sophia had made a rash and unwise move and that it related somehow to the Elysians and Edwin. Her entreaties to Mrs Humbert Dupree for further information met with no success. Therefore she took it upon herself to become personally involved in the matter.”

  “But, if so, why did she leave so abruptly?” I said. “Why go without first telling her father, or anyone else in the household, what she was doing?”

  “As to that, I cannot say. Only Hannah herself can provide the answer.”

  “You must have some inkling.”

  “You are asking me to speculate, Watson, and that is anathema to me. Sir Osbert, I strongly suspect your daughter is currently in Dorset, having embarked on a mission to rescue her friend from a situation she deems undesirable. Would you not concur?”

  “It is feasible,” said Woolfson. “What should I do? Instruct the police to focus their search efforts in that part of the country?”

  “I would submit that a greater lightness of touch is required. Sending in the police force is like letting loose a herd of stampeding buffalo. Reputations could get trampled. In delicate situations like these, the stiletto is often more effective than the blunderbuss.”

  “Ah. Yes. I see. You propose that the affair be handled on the quiet.”

  “By a specialist with years of experience in the discreet management of problems.”

  “The case is all yours, Mr Holmes,” Woolfson said with finality. His legal brain had clearly calculated his options and alighted upon the one least liable to make headlines. “You be my stiletto. I will pay whatever fee you levy. Please retrieve my daughter and restore her to me.”

  There followed a half-hour during which Holmes quizzed Woolfson’s staff, which comprised the butler, a cook, a housemaid and a coachman. The housemaid was the sole eyewitness to Hannah’s departure. She had been polishing the front-door brass on the morning of the Saturday before last when Hannah had passed her on her way out, with the stated goal of taking some exercise. The weather had been clement and the housemaid said it was not unusual for the mistress to go for a walk, sometimes for up to two hours, when the sun shone. Hannah had taken with her a “largish handbag” and had last been seen heading in the direction of Hyde Park.