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charleygirlTitle: The Hand of Seth 5/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Type: Gen, mystery
Characters Involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Inspector Lestrade
Summary: An investigation, a clue, and an ill-tempered earl...
Disclaimer: These characters are out of copyright but still don't belong to me. Doctor Who elements are the property of the BBC
Author's Note: Holmes and Watson as they appear in this story are based on the performances by Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke in the Granada TV series. This fic is ostensibly set between The Sign of Four and The Devil's Foot in the Granada run.
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four
THE HAND OF SETH
CHAPTER FIVE
It was almost a quarter past twelve when we at last reached Harcourt House.
Holmes climbed down from the cab slowly and carefully, his expression deterring me from offering my assistance. I paid the cabbie and followed him towards the large house on the west side of the vast square. The London home of the Ravensley family had been built from imposing white stone, its stuccoed frontage and classical columns marking it out as a product of the late eighteenth century. Two police constables stood on the steps, one either side of the black-painted front door.
As I reached the steps I realised that Holmes had lagged behind, and turned to see him standing on the pavement, leaning heavily upon his stick and staring up at the house. He walked up and down several times, occasionally stopping and leaning back, one hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun that had belatedly decided to reappear, looking up at the front windows. Finally he completed his observations and joined me on the steps.
“Inspector Lestrade is expecting us,” I told the nearest of the constables. The man nodded and indicated that we were to go inside – the front door stood open, and men had been entering and leaving the house on one errand or another as we stood there. We found Lestrade in the marble-floored hall. As he caught sight of us he hurried over.
“You look like death, Mr Holmes,” he said, “Have you caught this wretched influenza that’s doing the rounds? I’m already two good men down because of it, and - ”
Holmes waved the inspector’s words aside impatiently. “I have been retained, by Mr William Ravensley and others, to look into the events of last night,” he said.
“You’re quite welcome. It’s a pretty enough puzzle.”
“Where was the body found?” Holmes asked sharply, his keen eyes taking in every detail of the entrance hall.
“The earl’s study. Third door on the left down there,” said Lestrade, pointing. “The body’s been moved, of course. Professor Litefoot will have performed the autopsy by now.”
Holmes stalked off towards the indicated door, only a slight unsteadiness in his step betraying his weakness. Lestrade turned to me with raised eyebrows. “Is he all right?” he asked in a low voice.
“He is suffering from exhaustion,” I replied, seeing no reason tot lie to the inspector. “He should be resting.”
“He looks like he needs it.”
“He does indeed,” I muttered as we trailed after Holmes, crossing the chessboard floor of the hall. A broad staircase led to the upper floors – portraits of Ravensleys past gazed impassively down at us from their lofty perches.
“The family are at luncheon, though I doubt if any of them can eat much,” Lestrade told Holmes as he drew level with him in the study doorway.
“That is as well. I would rather conduct my investigations without causing them further distress. Is this where the body lay?” Holmes enquired, pointing to a spot on the carpet, not far from an impressive inlaid walnut desk. He put down his hat and stick, gazing intently about the study. It was a dark, typically masculine room, the walls decorated with sporting portraits and a large painting of a barely-clad woman above the mantelpiece that I recognised as one of the cod-medieval pieces by Burne Jones. The walls on either side of the marble fireplace were lined with well-stocked bookshelves. I also noticed a large globe in an alcove, and interestingly wrought piece in brass and steel.
“Just there,” Lestrade confirmed. “Lying on his side, a .45 revolver, still loaded, about six inches from his hand. No sign of a struggle, or any violence, and yet he was very obviously dead.”
Holmes pulled off his gloves and set them down beside his hat. “And at what time did the young man meet his end?”
Lestrade fumbled in his jacket pocket for his notebook and hurriedly flipped through the pages. “From the level of rigor mortis, initial estimate is between one and two o’clock this morning,” he reported. “Of course, we’ll know more when we get the results of the post mortem.”
“So he had lain undiscovered for three hours at least, until the maid entered at five o’clock. Does the earl keep the door locked?”
“At all times. He’s a very private man, and not even the children of the house are allowed in without his permission - with the exception of Lord James, that is. He has – had – a key, and so does the earl’s valet, who supervises the maid as she cleans.”
“But not on this occasion?”
“The maid had to clear the grates in the other rooms off the hall,” said Lestrade. “She passed the study door and, noticing it was open, went to investigate.”
“Finding James Ravensley dead on the floor and a valuable Egyptian artefact missing,” I said.
“Indeed, Doctor. Though the criminals must either have been expert picklocks or magicians – come and look at this.” Lestrade led the way to the alcove opposite that which held the globe. In it stood a tall mahogany display case, its panels set with double panes of thick glass and fastened with a variety of complex locks. Within the case, resting upon velvet cushions, lay a collection of items similar to those I had seen at the British Museum: Egyptian jewellery, fragments of hieroglyphs, and scraps of papyrus. There was a large gap in the centre of the case, the spot in which I presumed the statue of Seth had stood until that morning. What was curious, however, was that the locks all seemed still to be fastened. The only thing out of place besides the missing statue was a small round hole in the glass, through which it might just have been possible to pass the hand of a child. There was no other damage at all, and certainly nothing to suggest opportunist burglary to be the motive, for what kind of thief would remove a wooden figurine and leave valuable jewellery behind?
Holmes had produced his lens and was examining the cabinet. “Fingerprints?” he asked.
“None. Whoever is behind this came prepared,” Lestrade replied. “I personally lean towards the theory that it was an inside job.”
“How so?” I enquired.
“No sign of forced entry.”
“The doors were all found to be locked on the inside this morning?” asked Holmes. When Lestrade nodded, he added, “And the windows as well? Yes, I could detect no sign of a break-in from the outside of the building. This was certainly well-planned and executed with exquisite precision.” He swung round to survey the room at large, and then dropped to the floor, examining the expensive carpet through his lens. Lestrade and I watched him crawl around on the floor, his nose an inch from its surface, for all the world like a dog scenting a bone he had buried.
“This is most unusual,” he remarked, after some minutes of silence during which we had observed him with interest.
“What is, Mr Holmes?” the inspector asked.
“Well,” said Holmes, sitting back upon his heels, “Have you and your men examined the floor?”
“We have indeed, though we could determine little of use.”
“Take a look at this, then.” Holmes handed his lens to Lestrade. The inspector peered through it at a section of the carpet indicated by my friend – I stared over Lestrade’s shoulder, and was surprised to see the faint outline of a footprint. A footprint belonging to a child without shoes. My immediate thought was of Tonga, Jonathan Small’s savage little ally during the business with the Sign of Four not long ago.
“Good Lord!” Lestrade exclaimed. “That print can’t have been there this morning. We would have seen it!”
Holmes patted his shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, my dear fellow. I found it because I was looking for it.”
“Whoever committed the burglary must have been barefoot,” I mused. “Natural, I suppose, if one is to escape detection. It’s rather more awkward to ask to examine a man’s feet than it is to look at his shoes.”
Holmes shot me a look that told me my levity was not appreciated just at that moment.
“But how did they get in?” Lestrade wondered.
“Evidently they had help from someone within the house, as you thought,” I said, leaning back against the desk.
Holmes tapped his magnifying glass against his chin. I knew that thoughtful expression of old.
“You’re not convinced?” I asked.
“I don’t believe it to be that straightforward,” he replied, getting to his feet. As he did, he turned to face the fireplace and froze, staring into the grate. “Now that is interesting.”
“What is?” Lestrade peered in the direction of Holmes’s gaze, frowning.
“The ash in the grate has been disturbed.”
“The maid came in to clear the grate,” I pointed out.
Holmes smiled slightly. “Indeed,” was all he would say. He gathered up his hat and stick, and moved towards the door. “I think we have seen all we can here. I would like to speak to the servants.”
“Of course,” said Lestrade. “The maid is still understandably distraught.”
“Treat her gently, Holmes,” I warned as I followed them. On the way I peered into the fireplace myself, but could discern nothing that might have attracted my friend’s attention.
The servants’ hall, on the lower ground floor, was empty at this time of day, save for two housemaids and a dark-eyed man I took to be the earl’s valet. All the other staff would be busy in kitchen or waiting at table. They rose to their feet as we entered. One of the maids was white-faced, her eyes still red-rimmed from crying.
“This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, and his colleague, Doctor Watson,” said Lestrade. “They would like to ask some questions about the events of this morning.”
The poor young maid looked as though she were about to burst into tears once more. Her companion placed a comforting arm about her shoulders.
“As you wish, sir,” said the man. He was soberly dressed in black, his dark hair greying at the temples. “This is Mary, and Lottie, our first and second housemaids.”
“And you, I take it, are the earl’s valet,” said Holmes.
“I am indeed, sir. Michael Duncan in my name.”
“I understand, Mr Duncan, that you possess a key to his lordship’s study?”
“That is correct, sir, yes.”
“I presume that the butler also has a key?”
“No, sir.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me, but why should his lordship choose to designate a task to his valet that would be more appropriate to a member of the downstairs staff? Valets do not usually assist housemaids in their duties.”
“You are quite correct, sir,” said Duncan with a quick smile. “However, I have been in his lordship’s service for over thirty years, and my family have served the Ravensleys faithfully for generations. His lordship, being a somewhat…reticent man, prefers to entrust me with the safety of his private papers.”
“And the Egyptian artefacts.”
“Those too.”
“Then there are three keys to the study: his lordship’s Lord James’s, and the one you hold yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Lord James would have used his own key to enter the study this morning.” Holmes nodded and turned to Lestrade. “Has such a key been found upon the body?”
“I have not seen one,” said the inspector.
“You have your key on your person?” Holmes asked Duncan.
The valet produced a bunch of keys from his pocket, selecting one and holding it out to Holmes. My friend took it and examined it closely through his lens.
“Yes,” he said at length, “this is the key which fits the lock on the study door. I take it that the earl also has his key with him?”
“The key was on his lordship’s watch chain when he dressed this morning,” Duncan replied. “It never leaves his person, except when I lock the watch and other valuables away at night.”
“Thank you.” Throughout the interview Holmes had remained standing. His exhaustion was by now ever more apparent, but I would not embarrass him by suggesting he sit down. He would never have forgiven me. “Now,” he said, addressing the two maids, “I would like you to tell me exactly what occurred this morning. Leave no detail out, no matter how unimportant it may seem to you.”
The younger maid sniffed, evidently valiantly trying to hold back the tears. I was about to suggest that we leave the questions for another time when Holmes moved to the girl’s side and guided her to a chair. He sat down beside her and waited a moment before saying,
“I understand that this is very difficult for you, Lottie. You have had a deeply unpleasant experience.”
The girl nodded, biting her lip hard.
“However, I wish to discover exactly how Lord James came to meet his death. To do this, I will need your help. Do you feel able to assist me?”
After a moment, she nodded again, and I, not for the first time, marvelled at Holmes’s ability to deal with women. Despite his general dislike and distrust of their sex, he could behave with incredible charm and compassion when the situation demanded it.
“Now,” he said, “at what time did you come down to lay the fires?”
Lottie swallowed, and said in a small, wavering voice, “Just before five, sir. I always come down at the same time every day.”
“And you clear the grate first in the - ”
“The drawing room, sir. I work from there down to the library, and then I do the other side of the hall.”
“So the study is normally the last door you reach.”
She nodded. “I’d done the drawing room, and I realised I’d left my other brush in the kitchen, so I went back to get it.”
“Passing the study?” Holmes asked.
“Yes, sir. Mary had started polishing the floor after I’d begun on the fires, so I had to go that way to get back. As I went past, I saw the door was open. Well, it’s always kept locked, sir, his lordship’s orders. I thought maybe his lordship had got up early – he does that sometimes, you see, sir. But when I walked past I saw - ” Lottie’s voice cracked, and she forced back a sob. Her eyes had been fixed on the floor as she spoke, but now she raised her head to look directly at Holmes. “It was Lord James, sir! Just lying on the floor, his eyes staring at the wall! I couldn’t believe what I saw – I went up to him, but he weren’t moving, and the look on his face…it were horrible, sir! Like he’d seen the Devil!” She gulped, tears now freely streaming down her face. I stepped forwards, about to intervene, call a halt to the interview which was only causing the poor girl more distress. To my surprise, Holmes reached out and laid a hand gently over hers. Lottie stared up at him in astonishment for some moments before a smile broke shakily through the tears.
“Thank you, Lottie. I must ask you one further question,” Holmes said.
“Yes, sir?” she asked.
“Do you notice anything out of the ordinary about the study? Beyond the fact that the Egyptian statue was missing, I mean?”
Lottie thought for a log moment, before finally shaking her head. “No, sir. All was as usual.”
Holmes flashed her one of his brief smiles, which she returned. “You have been a great help,” he told her, releasing her hand. “I think that - ”
He was interrupted by the sudden jangling of a bell. “That’s the drawing room,” said Duncan. “His lordship asked to be informed when you arrived. They will have finished luncheon, and no doubt wish to speak with you, Mr Holmes.”
“Then we should not keep the earl waiting,” Holmes said, standing with some difficulty which he almost, but not quite, managed to hide. He led the way from the servants’ hall, climbing the stairs with the aid of the banister and emerging into black and white marble splendour. The butler was waiting for us in the hall, and conducted us in stately fashion to the drawing room.
“Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson and Inspector Lestrade,” he announced solemnly.
The chamber into which we were ushered was enormous, opulent and gilded, the very antithesis of the clubbable atmosphere of the study. Every surface was covered with photographs and ornaments, while pier-glass mirrors hung between the windows contrived to make the room seem more impressive, if that were even possible. Present amongst this decadence was William Ravensley, who rose as we entered from his seat flanked by two women who could only be his mother and sister. The countess seemed to be bearing the loss with greater fortitude than her daughter – there was tension around her eyes and in the set of her head, but little emotion beyond that had made it to the surface. In contrast, Lady Lucy was pale and drawn, her delicate hands tightly gripping a lace handkerchief. Beyond them, in the window embrasure, stood a young man of perhaps fifteen, with a sulky expression and his hair long like one of Oscar Wilde’s aesthetes, whom I took to be the Honourable Charles.
“Are, there you are, Holmes,” said a harsh, educated voice from the direction of the fireplace. The marble surround was so massive that I had not even noticed the diminutive figure of the earl of Harcourt standing there until he spoke. There was an arrogant set to his head, and coupled with his large and bristling red whiskers and moustache, it served to give him a less than pleasant aspect. He did not look pleased to see us. “I hope that you have discovered exactly how those damned Egyptians broke in last night.”
“I have nothing definite to report as yet,” Holmes replied levelly. “At present I have no clear suspects, but I can tell you that I very much doubt the Egyptian government to be involved. Therefore I suggest that making your suspicions common knowledge to be a rather foolhardy action.”
The earl glared at him, his small blue eyes sparking with anger. “How dare you speak to me in such a fashion, sir! Your brother told me that your methods were unorthodox, but he did not mention that you were also insolent!”
Holmes smiled slightly. “That does not surprise me in the least. We are not a close family, and my brother does not normally discuss my business. But neither is your family close-knit, it would seem, as you all dismissed Lord James’s fears regarding the family curse.”
“Stuff and damned nonsense,” the earl muttered. “The boy was not in his right mind.”
“That is unfair, Papa,” William Ravensley objected. “We should have listened to him. Maybe if we had he would still be alive.”
“Maybe if he had taken precautions and stopped mooning about like a half-wit these last few weeks, nothing would have happened,” the earl retorted. “He made his fears quite clear to everyone – anyone could have taken the opportunity.”
“You believe that someone murdered your son?” asked Holmes, cutting into the discussion.
“That is what you should be telling me, Mr Detective. All I know is that James was alive and well last night, and now he is dead,” said Harcourt bluntly. “I hope you are not going to try and say that he died of natural causes!”
“We will have to wait for the autopsy report to determine that.” At Holmes’s words Lady Lucy’s composure, such as it had been, broke and she buried her face in her brother’s shoulder. “I must ask you all whether you saw or heard anything last night. Were none of you aware of any commotion in the study?”
There was a pause, and then the earl said, “We heard nothing. My wife and I are both heavy sleepers. Even a thunderstorm could not rouse us.”
“I had far too much port,” William confessed. “I knew nothing until Duncan woke me when Jamie was found.”
“As I am sure you have seen, Mr Holmes, this is a large house,” said the countess, speaking for the first time. Her voice was calm, hardly that of a woman who had just lost her eldest child in such shocking circumstances. “It is possible to be completely unaware of what is happening in the next room, let alone two floors below.”
“I see,” said Holmes slowly. “It is indeed unfortunate for Lord James that this house is so large.”
“You find fault with my home, sir?” demanded the earl, stepping towards my friend in a menacing fashion. It was an absurd sight, as the man was some six inches shorter than Holmes, but there was no disguising the belligerent intent.
“Only in the sense that the scale is not conducive to an investigation such as this. In humbler dwellings the occupants usually take some notice when a member of their family is killed under their very noses,” said Holmes tartly.
“I did not retain your services so that you might insult my family, Mr Holmes!” the earl roared, rapidly turning puce behind his impressive facial hair.
“In that case, I would politely suggest that you work with me rather than against me. Good day to you.” Holmes turned and strode from the room, leaving me and a shocked Lestrade to follow. I could do little beyond smiling apologetically at the Ravensleys before making my exit as swiftly as possible. Behind me I heard the earl explode with rage, his voice echoing from the marble of the hall before the butler discretely shut the door.
“Holmes, you cannot speak to a peer of the realm in that manner,” I said as I reached him.
“They know something, Watson, and they are deliberately keeping it from me. Until they decide to cooperate, all conversation is useless,” he snapped. “What deference is due to a man who treats the death of his eldest child as a minor inconvenience?”
I could not argue with that, and was glad when Lestrade joined us, still dumbfounded at Holmes’s behaviour.
“Mr Holmes, that is the earl of Harcourt!” He cried, waving an arm towards the – mercifully still closed – drawing room door.
“So I am aware.”
“You – you – cannot - ”
“Lestrade, there is a man dead, in all probability murdered in his own home. I am far more concerned with the implications of that crime than I am with distressing a man who, however noble his birth, has quite clearly been handed no compassion at all.” Holmes put on his hat. “I should like to view Lord Amsworth’s body.”
I knew what that would entail, and it was not my idea of a convivial afternoon. “Then - ”
“Yes, Watson. The morgue.”
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Type: Gen, mystery
Characters Involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Inspector Lestrade
Summary: An investigation, a clue, and an ill-tempered earl...
Disclaimer: These characters are out of copyright but still don't belong to me. Doctor Who elements are the property of the BBC
Author's Note: Holmes and Watson as they appear in this story are based on the performances by Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke in the Granada TV series. This fic is ostensibly set between The Sign of Four and The Devil's Foot in the Granada run.
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four
THE HAND OF SETH
CHAPTER FIVE
It was almost a quarter past twelve when we at last reached Harcourt House.
Holmes climbed down from the cab slowly and carefully, his expression deterring me from offering my assistance. I paid the cabbie and followed him towards the large house on the west side of the vast square. The London home of the Ravensley family had been built from imposing white stone, its stuccoed frontage and classical columns marking it out as a product of the late eighteenth century. Two police constables stood on the steps, one either side of the black-painted front door.
As I reached the steps I realised that Holmes had lagged behind, and turned to see him standing on the pavement, leaning heavily upon his stick and staring up at the house. He walked up and down several times, occasionally stopping and leaning back, one hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun that had belatedly decided to reappear, looking up at the front windows. Finally he completed his observations and joined me on the steps.
“Inspector Lestrade is expecting us,” I told the nearest of the constables. The man nodded and indicated that we were to go inside – the front door stood open, and men had been entering and leaving the house on one errand or another as we stood there. We found Lestrade in the marble-floored hall. As he caught sight of us he hurried over.
“You look like death, Mr Holmes,” he said, “Have you caught this wretched influenza that’s doing the rounds? I’m already two good men down because of it, and - ”
Holmes waved the inspector’s words aside impatiently. “I have been retained, by Mr William Ravensley and others, to look into the events of last night,” he said.
“You’re quite welcome. It’s a pretty enough puzzle.”
“Where was the body found?” Holmes asked sharply, his keen eyes taking in every detail of the entrance hall.
“The earl’s study. Third door on the left down there,” said Lestrade, pointing. “The body’s been moved, of course. Professor Litefoot will have performed the autopsy by now.”
Holmes stalked off towards the indicated door, only a slight unsteadiness in his step betraying his weakness. Lestrade turned to me with raised eyebrows. “Is he all right?” he asked in a low voice.
“He is suffering from exhaustion,” I replied, seeing no reason tot lie to the inspector. “He should be resting.”
“He looks like he needs it.”
“He does indeed,” I muttered as we trailed after Holmes, crossing the chessboard floor of the hall. A broad staircase led to the upper floors – portraits of Ravensleys past gazed impassively down at us from their lofty perches.
“The family are at luncheon, though I doubt if any of them can eat much,” Lestrade told Holmes as he drew level with him in the study doorway.
“That is as well. I would rather conduct my investigations without causing them further distress. Is this where the body lay?” Holmes enquired, pointing to a spot on the carpet, not far from an impressive inlaid walnut desk. He put down his hat and stick, gazing intently about the study. It was a dark, typically masculine room, the walls decorated with sporting portraits and a large painting of a barely-clad woman above the mantelpiece that I recognised as one of the cod-medieval pieces by Burne Jones. The walls on either side of the marble fireplace were lined with well-stocked bookshelves. I also noticed a large globe in an alcove, and interestingly wrought piece in brass and steel.
“Just there,” Lestrade confirmed. “Lying on his side, a .45 revolver, still loaded, about six inches from his hand. No sign of a struggle, or any violence, and yet he was very obviously dead.”
Holmes pulled off his gloves and set them down beside his hat. “And at what time did the young man meet his end?”
Lestrade fumbled in his jacket pocket for his notebook and hurriedly flipped through the pages. “From the level of rigor mortis, initial estimate is between one and two o’clock this morning,” he reported. “Of course, we’ll know more when we get the results of the post mortem.”
“So he had lain undiscovered for three hours at least, until the maid entered at five o’clock. Does the earl keep the door locked?”
“At all times. He’s a very private man, and not even the children of the house are allowed in without his permission - with the exception of Lord James, that is. He has – had – a key, and so does the earl’s valet, who supervises the maid as she cleans.”
“But not on this occasion?”
“The maid had to clear the grates in the other rooms off the hall,” said Lestrade. “She passed the study door and, noticing it was open, went to investigate.”
“Finding James Ravensley dead on the floor and a valuable Egyptian artefact missing,” I said.
“Indeed, Doctor. Though the criminals must either have been expert picklocks or magicians – come and look at this.” Lestrade led the way to the alcove opposite that which held the globe. In it stood a tall mahogany display case, its panels set with double panes of thick glass and fastened with a variety of complex locks. Within the case, resting upon velvet cushions, lay a collection of items similar to those I had seen at the British Museum: Egyptian jewellery, fragments of hieroglyphs, and scraps of papyrus. There was a large gap in the centre of the case, the spot in which I presumed the statue of Seth had stood until that morning. What was curious, however, was that the locks all seemed still to be fastened. The only thing out of place besides the missing statue was a small round hole in the glass, through which it might just have been possible to pass the hand of a child. There was no other damage at all, and certainly nothing to suggest opportunist burglary to be the motive, for what kind of thief would remove a wooden figurine and leave valuable jewellery behind?
Holmes had produced his lens and was examining the cabinet. “Fingerprints?” he asked.
“None. Whoever is behind this came prepared,” Lestrade replied. “I personally lean towards the theory that it was an inside job.”
“How so?” I enquired.
“No sign of forced entry.”
“The doors were all found to be locked on the inside this morning?” asked Holmes. When Lestrade nodded, he added, “And the windows as well? Yes, I could detect no sign of a break-in from the outside of the building. This was certainly well-planned and executed with exquisite precision.” He swung round to survey the room at large, and then dropped to the floor, examining the expensive carpet through his lens. Lestrade and I watched him crawl around on the floor, his nose an inch from its surface, for all the world like a dog scenting a bone he had buried.
“This is most unusual,” he remarked, after some minutes of silence during which we had observed him with interest.
“What is, Mr Holmes?” the inspector asked.
“Well,” said Holmes, sitting back upon his heels, “Have you and your men examined the floor?”
“We have indeed, though we could determine little of use.”
“Take a look at this, then.” Holmes handed his lens to Lestrade. The inspector peered through it at a section of the carpet indicated by my friend – I stared over Lestrade’s shoulder, and was surprised to see the faint outline of a footprint. A footprint belonging to a child without shoes. My immediate thought was of Tonga, Jonathan Small’s savage little ally during the business with the Sign of Four not long ago.
“Good Lord!” Lestrade exclaimed. “That print can’t have been there this morning. We would have seen it!”
Holmes patted his shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, my dear fellow. I found it because I was looking for it.”
“Whoever committed the burglary must have been barefoot,” I mused. “Natural, I suppose, if one is to escape detection. It’s rather more awkward to ask to examine a man’s feet than it is to look at his shoes.”
Holmes shot me a look that told me my levity was not appreciated just at that moment.
“But how did they get in?” Lestrade wondered.
“Evidently they had help from someone within the house, as you thought,” I said, leaning back against the desk.
Holmes tapped his magnifying glass against his chin. I knew that thoughtful expression of old.
“You’re not convinced?” I asked.
“I don’t believe it to be that straightforward,” he replied, getting to his feet. As he did, he turned to face the fireplace and froze, staring into the grate. “Now that is interesting.”
“What is?” Lestrade peered in the direction of Holmes’s gaze, frowning.
“The ash in the grate has been disturbed.”
“The maid came in to clear the grate,” I pointed out.
Holmes smiled slightly. “Indeed,” was all he would say. He gathered up his hat and stick, and moved towards the door. “I think we have seen all we can here. I would like to speak to the servants.”
“Of course,” said Lestrade. “The maid is still understandably distraught.”
“Treat her gently, Holmes,” I warned as I followed them. On the way I peered into the fireplace myself, but could discern nothing that might have attracted my friend’s attention.
The servants’ hall, on the lower ground floor, was empty at this time of day, save for two housemaids and a dark-eyed man I took to be the earl’s valet. All the other staff would be busy in kitchen or waiting at table. They rose to their feet as we entered. One of the maids was white-faced, her eyes still red-rimmed from crying.
“This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, and his colleague, Doctor Watson,” said Lestrade. “They would like to ask some questions about the events of this morning.”
The poor young maid looked as though she were about to burst into tears once more. Her companion placed a comforting arm about her shoulders.
“As you wish, sir,” said the man. He was soberly dressed in black, his dark hair greying at the temples. “This is Mary, and Lottie, our first and second housemaids.”
“And you, I take it, are the earl’s valet,” said Holmes.
“I am indeed, sir. Michael Duncan in my name.”
“I understand, Mr Duncan, that you possess a key to his lordship’s study?”
“That is correct, sir, yes.”
“I presume that the butler also has a key?”
“No, sir.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me, but why should his lordship choose to designate a task to his valet that would be more appropriate to a member of the downstairs staff? Valets do not usually assist housemaids in their duties.”
“You are quite correct, sir,” said Duncan with a quick smile. “However, I have been in his lordship’s service for over thirty years, and my family have served the Ravensleys faithfully for generations. His lordship, being a somewhat…reticent man, prefers to entrust me with the safety of his private papers.”
“And the Egyptian artefacts.”
“Those too.”
“Then there are three keys to the study: his lordship’s Lord James’s, and the one you hold yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Lord James would have used his own key to enter the study this morning.” Holmes nodded and turned to Lestrade. “Has such a key been found upon the body?”
“I have not seen one,” said the inspector.
“You have your key on your person?” Holmes asked Duncan.
The valet produced a bunch of keys from his pocket, selecting one and holding it out to Holmes. My friend took it and examined it closely through his lens.
“Yes,” he said at length, “this is the key which fits the lock on the study door. I take it that the earl also has his key with him?”
“The key was on his lordship’s watch chain when he dressed this morning,” Duncan replied. “It never leaves his person, except when I lock the watch and other valuables away at night.”
“Thank you.” Throughout the interview Holmes had remained standing. His exhaustion was by now ever more apparent, but I would not embarrass him by suggesting he sit down. He would never have forgiven me. “Now,” he said, addressing the two maids, “I would like you to tell me exactly what occurred this morning. Leave no detail out, no matter how unimportant it may seem to you.”
The younger maid sniffed, evidently valiantly trying to hold back the tears. I was about to suggest that we leave the questions for another time when Holmes moved to the girl’s side and guided her to a chair. He sat down beside her and waited a moment before saying,
“I understand that this is very difficult for you, Lottie. You have had a deeply unpleasant experience.”
The girl nodded, biting her lip hard.
“However, I wish to discover exactly how Lord James came to meet his death. To do this, I will need your help. Do you feel able to assist me?”
After a moment, she nodded again, and I, not for the first time, marvelled at Holmes’s ability to deal with women. Despite his general dislike and distrust of their sex, he could behave with incredible charm and compassion when the situation demanded it.
“Now,” he said, “at what time did you come down to lay the fires?”
Lottie swallowed, and said in a small, wavering voice, “Just before five, sir. I always come down at the same time every day.”
“And you clear the grate first in the - ”
“The drawing room, sir. I work from there down to the library, and then I do the other side of the hall.”
“So the study is normally the last door you reach.”
She nodded. “I’d done the drawing room, and I realised I’d left my other brush in the kitchen, so I went back to get it.”
“Passing the study?” Holmes asked.
“Yes, sir. Mary had started polishing the floor after I’d begun on the fires, so I had to go that way to get back. As I went past, I saw the door was open. Well, it’s always kept locked, sir, his lordship’s orders. I thought maybe his lordship had got up early – he does that sometimes, you see, sir. But when I walked past I saw - ” Lottie’s voice cracked, and she forced back a sob. Her eyes had been fixed on the floor as she spoke, but now she raised her head to look directly at Holmes. “It was Lord James, sir! Just lying on the floor, his eyes staring at the wall! I couldn’t believe what I saw – I went up to him, but he weren’t moving, and the look on his face…it were horrible, sir! Like he’d seen the Devil!” She gulped, tears now freely streaming down her face. I stepped forwards, about to intervene, call a halt to the interview which was only causing the poor girl more distress. To my surprise, Holmes reached out and laid a hand gently over hers. Lottie stared up at him in astonishment for some moments before a smile broke shakily through the tears.
“Thank you, Lottie. I must ask you one further question,” Holmes said.
“Yes, sir?” she asked.
“Do you notice anything out of the ordinary about the study? Beyond the fact that the Egyptian statue was missing, I mean?”
Lottie thought for a log moment, before finally shaking her head. “No, sir. All was as usual.”
Holmes flashed her one of his brief smiles, which she returned. “You have been a great help,” he told her, releasing her hand. “I think that - ”
He was interrupted by the sudden jangling of a bell. “That’s the drawing room,” said Duncan. “His lordship asked to be informed when you arrived. They will have finished luncheon, and no doubt wish to speak with you, Mr Holmes.”
“Then we should not keep the earl waiting,” Holmes said, standing with some difficulty which he almost, but not quite, managed to hide. He led the way from the servants’ hall, climbing the stairs with the aid of the banister and emerging into black and white marble splendour. The butler was waiting for us in the hall, and conducted us in stately fashion to the drawing room.
“Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson and Inspector Lestrade,” he announced solemnly.
The chamber into which we were ushered was enormous, opulent and gilded, the very antithesis of the clubbable atmosphere of the study. Every surface was covered with photographs and ornaments, while pier-glass mirrors hung between the windows contrived to make the room seem more impressive, if that were even possible. Present amongst this decadence was William Ravensley, who rose as we entered from his seat flanked by two women who could only be his mother and sister. The countess seemed to be bearing the loss with greater fortitude than her daughter – there was tension around her eyes and in the set of her head, but little emotion beyond that had made it to the surface. In contrast, Lady Lucy was pale and drawn, her delicate hands tightly gripping a lace handkerchief. Beyond them, in the window embrasure, stood a young man of perhaps fifteen, with a sulky expression and his hair long like one of Oscar Wilde’s aesthetes, whom I took to be the Honourable Charles.
“Are, there you are, Holmes,” said a harsh, educated voice from the direction of the fireplace. The marble surround was so massive that I had not even noticed the diminutive figure of the earl of Harcourt standing there until he spoke. There was an arrogant set to his head, and coupled with his large and bristling red whiskers and moustache, it served to give him a less than pleasant aspect. He did not look pleased to see us. “I hope that you have discovered exactly how those damned Egyptians broke in last night.”
“I have nothing definite to report as yet,” Holmes replied levelly. “At present I have no clear suspects, but I can tell you that I very much doubt the Egyptian government to be involved. Therefore I suggest that making your suspicions common knowledge to be a rather foolhardy action.”
The earl glared at him, his small blue eyes sparking with anger. “How dare you speak to me in such a fashion, sir! Your brother told me that your methods were unorthodox, but he did not mention that you were also insolent!”
Holmes smiled slightly. “That does not surprise me in the least. We are not a close family, and my brother does not normally discuss my business. But neither is your family close-knit, it would seem, as you all dismissed Lord James’s fears regarding the family curse.”
“Stuff and damned nonsense,” the earl muttered. “The boy was not in his right mind.”
“That is unfair, Papa,” William Ravensley objected. “We should have listened to him. Maybe if we had he would still be alive.”
“Maybe if he had taken precautions and stopped mooning about like a half-wit these last few weeks, nothing would have happened,” the earl retorted. “He made his fears quite clear to everyone – anyone could have taken the opportunity.”
“You believe that someone murdered your son?” asked Holmes, cutting into the discussion.
“That is what you should be telling me, Mr Detective. All I know is that James was alive and well last night, and now he is dead,” said Harcourt bluntly. “I hope you are not going to try and say that he died of natural causes!”
“We will have to wait for the autopsy report to determine that.” At Holmes’s words Lady Lucy’s composure, such as it had been, broke and she buried her face in her brother’s shoulder. “I must ask you all whether you saw or heard anything last night. Were none of you aware of any commotion in the study?”
There was a pause, and then the earl said, “We heard nothing. My wife and I are both heavy sleepers. Even a thunderstorm could not rouse us.”
“I had far too much port,” William confessed. “I knew nothing until Duncan woke me when Jamie was found.”
“As I am sure you have seen, Mr Holmes, this is a large house,” said the countess, speaking for the first time. Her voice was calm, hardly that of a woman who had just lost her eldest child in such shocking circumstances. “It is possible to be completely unaware of what is happening in the next room, let alone two floors below.”
“I see,” said Holmes slowly. “It is indeed unfortunate for Lord James that this house is so large.”
“You find fault with my home, sir?” demanded the earl, stepping towards my friend in a menacing fashion. It was an absurd sight, as the man was some six inches shorter than Holmes, but there was no disguising the belligerent intent.
“Only in the sense that the scale is not conducive to an investigation such as this. In humbler dwellings the occupants usually take some notice when a member of their family is killed under their very noses,” said Holmes tartly.
“I did not retain your services so that you might insult my family, Mr Holmes!” the earl roared, rapidly turning puce behind his impressive facial hair.
“In that case, I would politely suggest that you work with me rather than against me. Good day to you.” Holmes turned and strode from the room, leaving me and a shocked Lestrade to follow. I could do little beyond smiling apologetically at the Ravensleys before making my exit as swiftly as possible. Behind me I heard the earl explode with rage, his voice echoing from the marble of the hall before the butler discretely shut the door.
“Holmes, you cannot speak to a peer of the realm in that manner,” I said as I reached him.
“They know something, Watson, and they are deliberately keeping it from me. Until they decide to cooperate, all conversation is useless,” he snapped. “What deference is due to a man who treats the death of his eldest child as a minor inconvenience?”
I could not argue with that, and was glad when Lestrade joined us, still dumbfounded at Holmes’s behaviour.
“Mr Holmes, that is the earl of Harcourt!” He cried, waving an arm towards the – mercifully still closed – drawing room door.
“So I am aware.”
“You – you – cannot - ”
“Lestrade, there is a man dead, in all probability murdered in his own home. I am far more concerned with the implications of that crime than I am with distressing a man who, however noble his birth, has quite clearly been handed no compassion at all.” Holmes put on his hat. “I should like to view Lord Amsworth’s body.”
I knew what that would entail, and it was not my idea of a convivial afternoon. “Then - ”
“Yes, Watson. The morgue.”
TBC
