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charleygirlTitle: The Inheritance of Barnabus Aloysius Peabody 4/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 3294
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: Mystery, family
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me. I do however own Cressida Cunningham and her family. Cressida has previously been mentioned in my fic The Puzzle Box and appears in Chapter 11 of Jottings from a Doctor's Journal.
Summary: Ptolemy and Xanthe have some vital information...
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three
THE INHERITANCE OF BARNABUS ALOYSIUS PEABODY
CHAPTER FOUR
Holmes stiffened, like a hunting dog on point.
“You actually saw someone with the cat?” he asked sharply. “You are sure?”
“Ptolemy, don’t play games with Mr Holmes,” Colonel Cunningham said in a warning tone.
“It’s true, Papa! Honestly!” his son replied. Hovering at his shoulder, Xanthe nodded enthusiastically. “We can help cousin Sherlock with his investigation!”
Cunningham sighed, as though this kind of interruption were a regular occurrence. “Ptolemy…”
Holmes held up a hand. “Wait, Charles. I would be very interested to hear what the children have to say.”
The colonel looked surprised, but said, “Well, if you’re sure - ”
“I am indeed.”
“Holmes, treat Xanthe gently,” I said in a low voice. “She’s very shy – don’t frighten her.”
He pursed his lips impatiently for a moment before he nodded. Turning to the expectant children, he bent down so that he did not tower quite so far over them, particularly the diminutive Xanthe. “Well, then, Miss Cunningham,” he said, “I would be very grateful if you will come and tell me what it was you saw.” She held back, clutching her brother’s sleeve, and I was not entirely surprised, for Holmes could seem very intimidating even to me at times, with his great height, piercing gaze and sometimes strident voice. Apparently sensing this, he smiled and held out a hand to her. Ptolemy whispered something in her ear, and after a moment or two more she hesitantly put her little fingers into Holmes’s palm. Straightening, he led her back up the path to the front steps, Ptolemy walking at his side. It made a strange picture, for one did not often see Holmes with children other than his ragamuffin band of street urchins.
He sat down on the steps, setting his hat beside him, so that he and Xanthe were almost eye to eye. “Now,” he said, with that remarkable gentleness of which he was capable when it pleased him, “I understand that you were wakeful on Monday night. Do you often look out of the window when everyone else has gone to bed?”
Colonel Cunningham and I took a careful pace or two towards the little group, but even at a shorter distance I could only just catch Xanthe’s words as she said in a very soft voice,
“Sometimes. When I have bad dreams.” Holmes, prey to nightmares himself, nodded sympathetically, which seemed to encourage her, and she added, “I like to look for the man in the moon, and I know when I find him everything will be all right.”
“Very wise of you. You saw someone leaving Mrs Peabody’s house that night?”
Xanthe nodded, her black curls bobbing. “I heard the gate squeak, so I looked out again. Someone was walking down the road, away from the house.”
“Could you tell whether it was a man or a woman?”
The little girl now shook her head. “It was too dark, and they wore a cloak with a big hood.” She screwed up her face in deep thought. “They were small, smaller than Papa and Doctor Watson, and much , much smaller than you…Cousin Sherlock.”
Holmes smiled at her hesitant use of his name. “And how do you know that?” he asked.
Ptolemy, desperate to be included, opened his mouth, but his sister got there first, emboldened by Holmes’s attention. “The tree,” she said, and pointed to the chestnut beneath which her father and I still stood. Some of its branches reached over the garden wall into the street, bowed beneath the weight of their bounty – we had had to move closer to the trunk in order to avoid hitting our heads.
“Ah.” Holmes nodded. “I see. You mean this person could walk beneath the branches without ducking their head? You are indeed a most observant young lady.”
Xanthe’s small face lit up with pride. “They had a basket over their arm, too,” she said. “I noticed because it was much too late to go shopping and I thought it was a funny thing to be carrying at night.”
“It must have had Barnabus Aloysius inside!” Ptolemy declared, at last able to break into the discussion.
Holmes raised a finger. “We must not allow ourselves to draw conclusions before all the facts are to hand,” he said, and got to his feet, putting on his hat as he rose. He checked his watch. “It is getting late, and we will miss our train if we do not hurry. Thank you, Miss Cunningham, you have been of great assistance to me.”
Xanthe blushed, and Ptolemy looked more than a little jealous. Oblivious to this, Holmes swept down the path, swinging his stick, his stride purposeful.
“Come, Watson!” he cried. “Good day to you, Charles – we will return within the week.”
Cunningham looked bemused, but waved in farewell as his children ran to him, talking excitedly. I fell into step with Holmes, and as we turned the corner heard a small voice carried on the breeze announce,
“Papa, I like Cousin Sherlock, but he is a very strange man!”
***
As the following day was Sunday Holmes could make little progress on the case, and indeed appeared to put it entirely from his mind. Instead he embarked upon several lively compositions upon his violin, filling the house with music and causing myself and Mrs Hudson no little confusion, for only two days before he had been skulking around the sitting room, chewing on his fingernails and bemoaning the lack of ingenuity of the criminal classes in general. I would never have imagined that sparring with his cousin and the theft of an overweight Persian cat could effect such a change in his mood.
On Monday morning when I ventured down to breakfast I met Mrs Hudson on the landing. The good lady was tutting and shaking her head at the empty plate on her tray, and I could not help but enquire as to the source of her apparent distress.
“Mr Holmes, of course,” she replied. “Is he sickening for something do you think, Doctor?”
I frowned. “Not as far as I am aware. Why do you ask?”
“Well, sir, when he asks for breakfast early and then proceeds to actually eat all that is put before him with enthusiasm before leaving the house whistling to himself – yes, sir, whistling! – I cannot help but wonder,” Mrs Hudson said, and bustled off with a heavenward role of her eyes.
My practice being somewhat busy of late, I was engaged upon appointments and visits all day, and did not return to Baker Street until the early evening. The open window on the first floor and the strains of Beethoven’s Pastoral drifting through the sash were enough to tell me that Holmes was also back, and I hastened up the seventeen stairs to discover what he had been doing with himself since his departure that morning.
By the time I reached the sitting room the Stradivarius lay abandoned on the sofa and Holmes was ensconced in his armchair. He glanced up from lighting a cigarette to acknowledge my entrance but said nothing and so I settled myself on the opposite side of the hearth with my newspaper, intending to comfortably while away the time until dinner.
Eventually, after taking a lungful of smoke and expelling it towards the ceiling in a slow breath, Holmes asked, “Watson, do you have a surgery tomorrow evening?”
I looked up, surprised by the question, and immediately recalled Mrs Hudson’s pronouncement of earlier. “If you are unwell there is no need to attend the surgery, Holmes,” I said, and he smiled.
“You misunderstand me, my dear fellow. I have need of your premises rather than your medical attention. Would six o’clock be convenient?”
“For what, precisely?”
Holmes tapped ash out into a saucer on the table at his elbow. “An interview. I had cause today to engage a ladies’ companion, you see, and I am afraid I gave your professional address in Queen Anne Street to the head of the agency quite by accident.” He looked apologetic, but I was not taken in for a moment.
“Holmes, you never do anything by accident,” I said, pulling an amused frown. “Who is this woman, and why have you secured her services?”
“To the latter, my sister has need of a chaperone. As for the former…establishing her identity is the purpose of the interview.”
“Your sister…I see. Am I to meet this no doubt charming lady of whom I have heard nothing until now?” Holmes merely raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly, so I continued, “I take it from this that you have engaged this person without first making her acquaintance.”
“Indeed. I was, I confess, looking for a woman with very specific accomplishments. The agency in Kensington was by my calculations the seventh in the West End that I tried. Though currently engaged by a widowed lady in the suburbs, she is willing to attend an interview so that I may discover whether she will be suitable.” He glanced at me. “Rather curious, is it not, that a woman already gainfully employed would ask an agency to retain her name upon its books as though she were immediately free?”
I shrugged. “It does not seem to be common practise. I suppose one could say that it showed disloyalty to her employer, and even avarice, of she is continually seeking a better situation.”
“Very true.” Holmes stubbed out the remains of his cigarette. “In addition, if you are not busy I have made an appointment tomorrow morning with Mr Montague Clatworthy, senior partner with Clatworthy, Bingham and Bunce of Gray’s Inn Road.”
My frown returned, and this time it was serious. “Are you in need of a lawyer?”
“In a way.” He picked up a letter from the table beside his chair and fluttered it at me. “I have some personal business with Mr Clatworthy with regards to my godmother’s will.”
I took the letter and read the line inscribed there in a flowery, feminine hand:
I hereby give my consent for my godson, Mr Sherlock Holmes, to view my last will and testament,
Signed, Elizabeth Peabody
“Holmes, what is this?” I asked, somewhat incredulously. “First non-existent sisters and now a godmother…I am willing to believe much about your family, but you had not met Mrs Peabody before Friday afternoon!”
My friend sighed. “Watson, Watson, do not be obtuse. It merely serves to corroborate that false impression of your intelligence which you persist in presenting to your Strand readers.”
Not sure what to make of this somewhat back-handed compliment, I thought for a moment. Realisation dawning, I snapped my fingers. “Of course! You wish to examine the will to check that it is genuine.”
“Oh, I have no doubt that it is genuine. However, I wish to ascertain the exact wording of the bequest. I wired Mrs Peabody this morning, and she has consented to assist in a little innocent deception. Without her permission, we would be turned away at the door. So,” said Holmes, getting to his feet just as Mrs Hudson entered with the dinner tray, “if you are agreeable, we will see Mr Clatworthy at nine o’clock tomorrow, and begin to test my theories.”
***
The offices of Clatworthy, Bingham and Bunce were a hive of activity when we arrived, punctually at nine the following morning. As we waited, a rather harassed clerk informed us that Mr Clatworthy would not be longer than strictly necessary – unfortunately a client had been waiting upon the doorstep since eight o’clock and demanded to be attended to immediately.
“He presented himself and would not leave until Mr Clatworthy gave his assurances that his case would be concluded by the end of the week,” the young man said, struggling not to drop any of the teetering pile of papers tied with red ribbon that he carried.
“Is that likely?” I asked, more to make conversation than from curiosity, as Holmes had not responded.
“Impossible, as the case has yet to be put before the bench,” the clerk replied, “and since his land dispute is with the Crown, I doubt if it will be in the near future.”
It appeared that he was correct, as a few minutes later a large, imposing and most definitely angry man stalked past us towards the door, his meaty hands clenching the handle of his walking stick as though he would like to bring it into contact with the skull of someone nearby. I moved very carefully out of his way as a bell rang from the depths of the building and the clerk announced that Mr Clatworthy would see us now.
“I do apologise for keeping you waiting,” the gentleman himself said a few moments later as he welcomed us into his office. “Unfortunately Mr Johnson is rather…persistent.”
“So we gathered,” I replied, but Holmes waved an impatient hand.
“Mr Clatworthy,” he said, coming straight to the point as was his wont, “I take it you have the document I requested?”
“Of course, of course,” Clatworthy responded, reaching for a sheaf of legal papers and untying the ribbon that bound them. “I own I was a little surprised, as I was given to believe that Mrs Peabody was quite satisfied with the final draft of the will. Does she not wish to check the papers herself?”
Holmes favoured the solicitor with one of his fleeting smiles. “Alas, she finds herself unable to leave Harrow at the present time, which is why she asked me to look over them for her. My godmother is apt to be absentminded on occasion, and fears she may have omitted a small bequest she had intended to make.” His eyes shot sideways to glance at me as he spoke, but I kept a creditably straight face at this mention of his ‘relation’.
Clatworthy nodded. “Of course, of course.” He laid out the will on the desk before Holmes. “Here you are, sir. I am sure you will find everything to be in order.”
There was silence as my friend acquainted himself with the details of Mrs Peabody’s wishes, a silence I felt compelled to break as it stretched on longer than was comfortable. “It is somewhat unusual, is it not,” I began, “to leave such a large bequest to a - ”
“ – person who is not a blood relative,” Holmes finished for me, before I could mention Barnabus Aloysius.
The solicitor spread his hands, sitting back in his chair. “I have seen it many times, gentlemen, the result of family quarrels and the like. One baronet for whom I acted bequeathed his entire estate to favourite dog, would you believe! I did try to convince him to change his mind, but he was adamant. His children were only allowed to share in the money if they kept the animal in the style to which it had become accustomed.”
“Is such a bequest legal?” I asked convinced that it must not be.
“A trust had already been set up for the purpose, and so the bequest of the estate to that trust was perfectly legal, yes,” said Clatworthy. “Without a trust, such a bequest would be very difficult to organise. Pets cannot inherit vast sums of money as easily as would people, naturally.”
I looked at Holmes, waiting for him to ask the obvious question regarding a trust for Barnabus Aloysius, but to my surprise he did not, merely folding the papers and handing them to the solicitor before getting to his feet. “All appears to be as it should. Purely to satisfy my own curiosity, would I right in thinking that you mentioned this most fortunate canine of which you speak to Mrs Peabody, perhaps in passing?” he enquired.
Clatworthy frowned. “No - though I am senior partner here I am not Mrs Peabody’s solicitor and I have not personally met the lady. Mr Bingham was dealing with her affairs, but sadly he has been forced to retire due to ill health. My nephew, Magnus, has taken over Mr Bingham’s clients. He may have spoken of Lord Amersham to Mrs Peabody, but I cannot confirm it.”
“Is Mr Magnus Clatworthy here today?” Holmes asked hopefully. “As he is working on behalf of my godmother it may be as well that I speak to him.”
“Unfortunately he is at present visiting a client in Norwood, and will not return until this afternoon. If you wish to make a further appointment - ”
“Alas, I regret that I will be going out of town for a few days tonight.” A thoughtful expression came over Holmes’s face, and he stood with a finger pressed to his lips for a moment before he said, “Now I consider it I believe I may have met your nephew before. Does he have a scar just here, gained quite recently?” He lightly drew a line across his own forehead with his fingertip, just shy of his left eye.
Mr Clatworthy looked surprised, but replied in the affirmative. “An accident with a fencing foil, I believe,” he added. “He is a keen proponent of the sport.”
Holmes nodded sagely. “Ah, yes, that explains it. I am no stranger to the blade myself.” He reached into his coat and withdrew his card case – removing one he scribbled something on the reverse and handed it to Clatworthy. “I am sure you will appreciate that I am somewhat anxious to settle my godmother’s affairs before I leave London. If you would be so good as to ask Mr Magnus to call upon me at a quarter past six this evening, I would be most grateful.”
The solicitor looked a little bemused, but took the card and assured Holmes he would pass on the message. With that, my friend shepherded me from the office and out into the bright spring sunlight.
I opened my mouth to speak but he just smiled and shook his head, turning and striding off towards the Euston Road. I gave chase, eventually falling into step with him. “Are you going to share nothing with me?” I asked, a little disgruntled that I was not to receive an explanation to the conversation I had just witnessed and adding when he did not answer, “Holmes!”
He stopped walking and turned to look at me, raising his eyebrows at my annoyance. “Oh, well, if you insist. The terms of Mrs Peabody’s will leave nothing to her infernal cat. It is quite clear that Mr Montague Clatworthy has no knowledge of the document’s contents from his remarks to you regarding the establishment of trusts,” he replied. “A trust has indeed been established, and the estate is to pass to said trust upon Mrs Peabody’s death. There is no mention of Barnabus Aloysius at all.”
I stared in astonishment. “Then the cat is no legal heir! Why should anyone wish to steal him if that is the case?”
“I would imagine to remove him from his mistress’s affections. One would assume that after Mr Magnus Clatworthy mentioned Lord Amersham’s greyhound to her she set her heart upon leaving everything to her darling Barnabus Aloysius. Once her intentions were known, certain persons took steps to eliminate the rival for their inheritance – with the cat gone, she might gradually be brought to believe that making a more sensible alteration to her will would be for the best.”
“But who would wish to do such a thing? The children of Mrs Peabody’s sister?”
Holmes spotted a cab which had just dropped off a fare at the entrance to St Pancras station, and called out to the driver, making me jump. “That,” he said as he climbed aboard, “is what I intend to establish at six o’clock this evening.”
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 3294
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: Mystery, family
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me. I do however own Cressida Cunningham and her family. Cressida has previously been mentioned in my fic The Puzzle Box and appears in Chapter 11 of Jottings from a Doctor's Journal.
Summary: Ptolemy and Xanthe have some vital information...
THE INHERITANCE OF BARNABUS ALOYSIUS PEABODY
CHAPTER FOUR
Holmes stiffened, like a hunting dog on point.
“You actually saw someone with the cat?” he asked sharply. “You are sure?”
“Ptolemy, don’t play games with Mr Holmes,” Colonel Cunningham said in a warning tone.
“It’s true, Papa! Honestly!” his son replied. Hovering at his shoulder, Xanthe nodded enthusiastically. “We can help cousin Sherlock with his investigation!”
Cunningham sighed, as though this kind of interruption were a regular occurrence. “Ptolemy…”
Holmes held up a hand. “Wait, Charles. I would be very interested to hear what the children have to say.”
The colonel looked surprised, but said, “Well, if you’re sure - ”
“I am indeed.”
“Holmes, treat Xanthe gently,” I said in a low voice. “She’s very shy – don’t frighten her.”
He pursed his lips impatiently for a moment before he nodded. Turning to the expectant children, he bent down so that he did not tower quite so far over them, particularly the diminutive Xanthe. “Well, then, Miss Cunningham,” he said, “I would be very grateful if you will come and tell me what it was you saw.” She held back, clutching her brother’s sleeve, and I was not entirely surprised, for Holmes could seem very intimidating even to me at times, with his great height, piercing gaze and sometimes strident voice. Apparently sensing this, he smiled and held out a hand to her. Ptolemy whispered something in her ear, and after a moment or two more she hesitantly put her little fingers into Holmes’s palm. Straightening, he led her back up the path to the front steps, Ptolemy walking at his side. It made a strange picture, for one did not often see Holmes with children other than his ragamuffin band of street urchins.
He sat down on the steps, setting his hat beside him, so that he and Xanthe were almost eye to eye. “Now,” he said, with that remarkable gentleness of which he was capable when it pleased him, “I understand that you were wakeful on Monday night. Do you often look out of the window when everyone else has gone to bed?”
Colonel Cunningham and I took a careful pace or two towards the little group, but even at a shorter distance I could only just catch Xanthe’s words as she said in a very soft voice,
“Sometimes. When I have bad dreams.” Holmes, prey to nightmares himself, nodded sympathetically, which seemed to encourage her, and she added, “I like to look for the man in the moon, and I know when I find him everything will be all right.”
“Very wise of you. You saw someone leaving Mrs Peabody’s house that night?”
Xanthe nodded, her black curls bobbing. “I heard the gate squeak, so I looked out again. Someone was walking down the road, away from the house.”
“Could you tell whether it was a man or a woman?”
The little girl now shook her head. “It was too dark, and they wore a cloak with a big hood.” She screwed up her face in deep thought. “They were small, smaller than Papa and Doctor Watson, and much , much smaller than you…Cousin Sherlock.”
Holmes smiled at her hesitant use of his name. “And how do you know that?” he asked.
Ptolemy, desperate to be included, opened his mouth, but his sister got there first, emboldened by Holmes’s attention. “The tree,” she said, and pointed to the chestnut beneath which her father and I still stood. Some of its branches reached over the garden wall into the street, bowed beneath the weight of their bounty – we had had to move closer to the trunk in order to avoid hitting our heads.
“Ah.” Holmes nodded. “I see. You mean this person could walk beneath the branches without ducking their head? You are indeed a most observant young lady.”
Xanthe’s small face lit up with pride. “They had a basket over their arm, too,” she said. “I noticed because it was much too late to go shopping and I thought it was a funny thing to be carrying at night.”
“It must have had Barnabus Aloysius inside!” Ptolemy declared, at last able to break into the discussion.
Holmes raised a finger. “We must not allow ourselves to draw conclusions before all the facts are to hand,” he said, and got to his feet, putting on his hat as he rose. He checked his watch. “It is getting late, and we will miss our train if we do not hurry. Thank you, Miss Cunningham, you have been of great assistance to me.”
Xanthe blushed, and Ptolemy looked more than a little jealous. Oblivious to this, Holmes swept down the path, swinging his stick, his stride purposeful.
“Come, Watson!” he cried. “Good day to you, Charles – we will return within the week.”
Cunningham looked bemused, but waved in farewell as his children ran to him, talking excitedly. I fell into step with Holmes, and as we turned the corner heard a small voice carried on the breeze announce,
“Papa, I like Cousin Sherlock, but he is a very strange man!”
***
As the following day was Sunday Holmes could make little progress on the case, and indeed appeared to put it entirely from his mind. Instead he embarked upon several lively compositions upon his violin, filling the house with music and causing myself and Mrs Hudson no little confusion, for only two days before he had been skulking around the sitting room, chewing on his fingernails and bemoaning the lack of ingenuity of the criminal classes in general. I would never have imagined that sparring with his cousin and the theft of an overweight Persian cat could effect such a change in his mood.
On Monday morning when I ventured down to breakfast I met Mrs Hudson on the landing. The good lady was tutting and shaking her head at the empty plate on her tray, and I could not help but enquire as to the source of her apparent distress.
“Mr Holmes, of course,” she replied. “Is he sickening for something do you think, Doctor?”
I frowned. “Not as far as I am aware. Why do you ask?”
“Well, sir, when he asks for breakfast early and then proceeds to actually eat all that is put before him with enthusiasm before leaving the house whistling to himself – yes, sir, whistling! – I cannot help but wonder,” Mrs Hudson said, and bustled off with a heavenward role of her eyes.
My practice being somewhat busy of late, I was engaged upon appointments and visits all day, and did not return to Baker Street until the early evening. The open window on the first floor and the strains of Beethoven’s Pastoral drifting through the sash were enough to tell me that Holmes was also back, and I hastened up the seventeen stairs to discover what he had been doing with himself since his departure that morning.
By the time I reached the sitting room the Stradivarius lay abandoned on the sofa and Holmes was ensconced in his armchair. He glanced up from lighting a cigarette to acknowledge my entrance but said nothing and so I settled myself on the opposite side of the hearth with my newspaper, intending to comfortably while away the time until dinner.
Eventually, after taking a lungful of smoke and expelling it towards the ceiling in a slow breath, Holmes asked, “Watson, do you have a surgery tomorrow evening?”
I looked up, surprised by the question, and immediately recalled Mrs Hudson’s pronouncement of earlier. “If you are unwell there is no need to attend the surgery, Holmes,” I said, and he smiled.
“You misunderstand me, my dear fellow. I have need of your premises rather than your medical attention. Would six o’clock be convenient?”
“For what, precisely?”
Holmes tapped ash out into a saucer on the table at his elbow. “An interview. I had cause today to engage a ladies’ companion, you see, and I am afraid I gave your professional address in Queen Anne Street to the head of the agency quite by accident.” He looked apologetic, but I was not taken in for a moment.
“Holmes, you never do anything by accident,” I said, pulling an amused frown. “Who is this woman, and why have you secured her services?”
“To the latter, my sister has need of a chaperone. As for the former…establishing her identity is the purpose of the interview.”
“Your sister…I see. Am I to meet this no doubt charming lady of whom I have heard nothing until now?” Holmes merely raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly, so I continued, “I take it from this that you have engaged this person without first making her acquaintance.”
“Indeed. I was, I confess, looking for a woman with very specific accomplishments. The agency in Kensington was by my calculations the seventh in the West End that I tried. Though currently engaged by a widowed lady in the suburbs, she is willing to attend an interview so that I may discover whether she will be suitable.” He glanced at me. “Rather curious, is it not, that a woman already gainfully employed would ask an agency to retain her name upon its books as though she were immediately free?”
I shrugged. “It does not seem to be common practise. I suppose one could say that it showed disloyalty to her employer, and even avarice, of she is continually seeking a better situation.”
“Very true.” Holmes stubbed out the remains of his cigarette. “In addition, if you are not busy I have made an appointment tomorrow morning with Mr Montague Clatworthy, senior partner with Clatworthy, Bingham and Bunce of Gray’s Inn Road.”
My frown returned, and this time it was serious. “Are you in need of a lawyer?”
“In a way.” He picked up a letter from the table beside his chair and fluttered it at me. “I have some personal business with Mr Clatworthy with regards to my godmother’s will.”
I took the letter and read the line inscribed there in a flowery, feminine hand:
Signed, Elizabeth Peabody
“Holmes, what is this?” I asked, somewhat incredulously. “First non-existent sisters and now a godmother…I am willing to believe much about your family, but you had not met Mrs Peabody before Friday afternoon!”
My friend sighed. “Watson, Watson, do not be obtuse. It merely serves to corroborate that false impression of your intelligence which you persist in presenting to your Strand readers.”
Not sure what to make of this somewhat back-handed compliment, I thought for a moment. Realisation dawning, I snapped my fingers. “Of course! You wish to examine the will to check that it is genuine.”
“Oh, I have no doubt that it is genuine. However, I wish to ascertain the exact wording of the bequest. I wired Mrs Peabody this morning, and she has consented to assist in a little innocent deception. Without her permission, we would be turned away at the door. So,” said Holmes, getting to his feet just as Mrs Hudson entered with the dinner tray, “if you are agreeable, we will see Mr Clatworthy at nine o’clock tomorrow, and begin to test my theories.”
***
The offices of Clatworthy, Bingham and Bunce were a hive of activity when we arrived, punctually at nine the following morning. As we waited, a rather harassed clerk informed us that Mr Clatworthy would not be longer than strictly necessary – unfortunately a client had been waiting upon the doorstep since eight o’clock and demanded to be attended to immediately.
“He presented himself and would not leave until Mr Clatworthy gave his assurances that his case would be concluded by the end of the week,” the young man said, struggling not to drop any of the teetering pile of papers tied with red ribbon that he carried.
“Is that likely?” I asked, more to make conversation than from curiosity, as Holmes had not responded.
“Impossible, as the case has yet to be put before the bench,” the clerk replied, “and since his land dispute is with the Crown, I doubt if it will be in the near future.”
It appeared that he was correct, as a few minutes later a large, imposing and most definitely angry man stalked past us towards the door, his meaty hands clenching the handle of his walking stick as though he would like to bring it into contact with the skull of someone nearby. I moved very carefully out of his way as a bell rang from the depths of the building and the clerk announced that Mr Clatworthy would see us now.
“I do apologise for keeping you waiting,” the gentleman himself said a few moments later as he welcomed us into his office. “Unfortunately Mr Johnson is rather…persistent.”
“So we gathered,” I replied, but Holmes waved an impatient hand.
“Mr Clatworthy,” he said, coming straight to the point as was his wont, “I take it you have the document I requested?”
“Of course, of course,” Clatworthy responded, reaching for a sheaf of legal papers and untying the ribbon that bound them. “I own I was a little surprised, as I was given to believe that Mrs Peabody was quite satisfied with the final draft of the will. Does she not wish to check the papers herself?”
Holmes favoured the solicitor with one of his fleeting smiles. “Alas, she finds herself unable to leave Harrow at the present time, which is why she asked me to look over them for her. My godmother is apt to be absentminded on occasion, and fears she may have omitted a small bequest she had intended to make.” His eyes shot sideways to glance at me as he spoke, but I kept a creditably straight face at this mention of his ‘relation’.
Clatworthy nodded. “Of course, of course.” He laid out the will on the desk before Holmes. “Here you are, sir. I am sure you will find everything to be in order.”
There was silence as my friend acquainted himself with the details of Mrs Peabody’s wishes, a silence I felt compelled to break as it stretched on longer than was comfortable. “It is somewhat unusual, is it not,” I began, “to leave such a large bequest to a - ”
“ – person who is not a blood relative,” Holmes finished for me, before I could mention Barnabus Aloysius.
The solicitor spread his hands, sitting back in his chair. “I have seen it many times, gentlemen, the result of family quarrels and the like. One baronet for whom I acted bequeathed his entire estate to favourite dog, would you believe! I did try to convince him to change his mind, but he was adamant. His children were only allowed to share in the money if they kept the animal in the style to which it had become accustomed.”
“Is such a bequest legal?” I asked convinced that it must not be.
“A trust had already been set up for the purpose, and so the bequest of the estate to that trust was perfectly legal, yes,” said Clatworthy. “Without a trust, such a bequest would be very difficult to organise. Pets cannot inherit vast sums of money as easily as would people, naturally.”
I looked at Holmes, waiting for him to ask the obvious question regarding a trust for Barnabus Aloysius, but to my surprise he did not, merely folding the papers and handing them to the solicitor before getting to his feet. “All appears to be as it should. Purely to satisfy my own curiosity, would I right in thinking that you mentioned this most fortunate canine of which you speak to Mrs Peabody, perhaps in passing?” he enquired.
Clatworthy frowned. “No - though I am senior partner here I am not Mrs Peabody’s solicitor and I have not personally met the lady. Mr Bingham was dealing with her affairs, but sadly he has been forced to retire due to ill health. My nephew, Magnus, has taken over Mr Bingham’s clients. He may have spoken of Lord Amersham to Mrs Peabody, but I cannot confirm it.”
“Is Mr Magnus Clatworthy here today?” Holmes asked hopefully. “As he is working on behalf of my godmother it may be as well that I speak to him.”
“Unfortunately he is at present visiting a client in Norwood, and will not return until this afternoon. If you wish to make a further appointment - ”
“Alas, I regret that I will be going out of town for a few days tonight.” A thoughtful expression came over Holmes’s face, and he stood with a finger pressed to his lips for a moment before he said, “Now I consider it I believe I may have met your nephew before. Does he have a scar just here, gained quite recently?” He lightly drew a line across his own forehead with his fingertip, just shy of his left eye.
Mr Clatworthy looked surprised, but replied in the affirmative. “An accident with a fencing foil, I believe,” he added. “He is a keen proponent of the sport.”
Holmes nodded sagely. “Ah, yes, that explains it. I am no stranger to the blade myself.” He reached into his coat and withdrew his card case – removing one he scribbled something on the reverse and handed it to Clatworthy. “I am sure you will appreciate that I am somewhat anxious to settle my godmother’s affairs before I leave London. If you would be so good as to ask Mr Magnus to call upon me at a quarter past six this evening, I would be most grateful.”
The solicitor looked a little bemused, but took the card and assured Holmes he would pass on the message. With that, my friend shepherded me from the office and out into the bright spring sunlight.
I opened my mouth to speak but he just smiled and shook his head, turning and striding off towards the Euston Road. I gave chase, eventually falling into step with him. “Are you going to share nothing with me?” I asked, a little disgruntled that I was not to receive an explanation to the conversation I had just witnessed and adding when he did not answer, “Holmes!”
He stopped walking and turned to look at me, raising his eyebrows at my annoyance. “Oh, well, if you insist. The terms of Mrs Peabody’s will leave nothing to her infernal cat. It is quite clear that Mr Montague Clatworthy has no knowledge of the document’s contents from his remarks to you regarding the establishment of trusts,” he replied. “A trust has indeed been established, and the estate is to pass to said trust upon Mrs Peabody’s death. There is no mention of Barnabus Aloysius at all.”
I stared in astonishment. “Then the cat is no legal heir! Why should anyone wish to steal him if that is the case?”
“I would imagine to remove him from his mistress’s affections. One would assume that after Mr Magnus Clatworthy mentioned Lord Amersham’s greyhound to her she set her heart upon leaving everything to her darling Barnabus Aloysius. Once her intentions were known, certain persons took steps to eliminate the rival for their inheritance – with the cat gone, she might gradually be brought to believe that making a more sensible alteration to her will would be for the best.”
“But who would wish to do such a thing? The children of Mrs Peabody’s sister?”
Holmes spotted a cab which had just dropped off a fare at the entrance to St Pancras station, and called out to the driver, making me jump. “That,” he said as he climbed aboard, “is what I intend to establish at six o’clock this evening.”
TBC
