charleygirl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
charleygirl) wrote2008-06-28 08:19 am
charleygirl) wrote2008-06-28 08:19 am
Entry tags:
Fic | Sherlock Holmes | Jack In The Green 3/?
Title: Jack In The Green 3/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2972
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Genre: Mystery, Drama
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me. Hope Barton and its inhabitants do, however.
Summary: Molly Foster explains, and Holmes investigates...
Chapter One Chapter Two
JACK IN THE GREEN
CHAPTER THREE
Now winter is over I’m happy to say
And we’re all met again in our ribbons so gay
And we’re all met again on the first day of spring
To go about dancing with Jack In The Green
- Martin Graebe, performed by Magpie Lane
Holmes’s expression became puzzled. “You are sure that there will be a murder?”
Molly looked a little uncomfortable. “Not completely sure, no. But I fear something will happen.”
“Please, Mrs Foster, I am a detective, not a clairvoyant. I need facts and proofs, not a crystal ball. Why do you suspect this death?”
I exchanged a glance with my cousin. “You can tell us exactly what is on your mind, Molly,” I said, wishing that Holmes would be a little less blunt for once. Sometimes he could have all the subtlety of a traction engine.
“Well,” she said after taking a deep breath, “it’s like this, Mr Holmes. Back when I first married Samuel, I worked as governess to Miss Charlotte, the squire’s adopted daughter. She was an engaging little thing - I became very fond of her, and she of me in return. When she was fourteen she was sent abroad to complete her education at a school in Switzerland, and then spent some time with relatives in France. Last year she finally came home, and has been living up at the hall with her father.”
Holmes held up a finger. “Her name, her father’s name and her age now, if you please.”
“Charlotte Henrietta Melville. Her father’s name is Sir George Melville. She’s the daughter of one of his cousins, orphaned when she was barely two years old. Sir George never married, but he adopted her as his own and she’s his heir. She’s twenty, twenty-one in June.”
“And I take it that you are in some way concerned for this young lady?”
Molly got to her feet to attend to the lamps, even though the light had only just begun to fade. In the flickering glow from the taper I could make out worry lines on her face where there had been none earlier. “Being so close to her as she was growing up, I was overjoyed to see her back at the hall. She’d grown up, become a lady, but she was still the little girl I used to take upon my knee and tell stories to. She would come down here to the house and have tea, chat about her life abroad. You’d smile to see her, John; she’s such a spirited girl, so full of life.”
“I’m sure she is,” I said. “Did something happen to change that?”
“It’s been expected that soon her father will be finding a husband for her – he’s the last of the Melvilles, you see. There has been speculation as to who it would be, even a rumour that she already has a fiancé. She laughed them off, of course, and would say nothing. But then, we suddenly stopped seeing her about. She didn’t come here any more - my invitations were politely returned with a note that said Miss Charlotte had gone back to the continent, to stay with her relatives.”
“Is that unusual?” asked Holmes. I could tell by the way he was lounging in his chair, his arms dangling over the sides and all his usual attitudes of attention singularly absent, that he believed Molly to be a fanciful woman, worrying herself over nothing.
“She didn’t even say goodbye, Mr Holmes. Miss Charlotte wouldn’t do that, run off without a word to anybody! Rudeness of that kind just isn’t in her nature.”
“And what of her father? What is he like?”
“If you’d asked me six months ago, I would have said that there was never a more pleasant man on this earth than the squire. Miss Charlotte may not be his natural daughter, but she’s taken her cues from him. Sir George always had the well-being of his tenants at heart, would always look after his people.”
“You speak of him in the past tense – did something occur to change the squire’s temperament?”
“Drink, Mr Holmes,” Molly replied, “Many a man’s ruin. I never thought to see Sir George succumb, as he’s always been a man of such temperate habits, but it’s true enough. He and Miss Charlotte quarrelled often lately, so I’m told.”
“Then surely,” Holmes said, “is it not quite conceivable that they might have quarrelled over Sir George’s choice of husband, and Miss Charlotte has taken herself back to France in a fit of pique?”
I must confess that the explanation did seem to me to be a likely one, but Molly did not agree.
“That would be possible, were it not for something that occurred not three days ago when I was cycling back from town. There’s a lane that passes the hall – Sir George’s grandfather granted the villagers access some time in the last century – and as I rode I happened to glance up and see the attic windows. My heart nearly stopped – I could see, quite clearly, Miss Charlotte standing there, her hands pressed against the glass!” She looked at us both beseechingly. “She was trying to say something, but from that distance I could not make out the words. But I saw her, Mr Holmes, I saw her as clearly as I see you now!”
I looked at Holmes – he was sitting up straight in his chair, completely alert now. “You are quite certain it was Miss Melville?”
Molly nodded, her chin jutting determinedly. “I don’t imagine things, Mr Holmes. I’ve a sharp eye, and a brain in my head, and I know that it was Miss Charlotte at the window. I happened to run into the housekeeper as I reached home, and I asked her if the mistress had returned from her travels. You can imagine my astonishment when she told me that Sir George had received a letter that morning telling him that Miss Charlotte intended to remain in the south of France for the rest of the summer!”
“Why should she say such a thing if the girl is in the house?” I wondered.
“Because evidently either the girl is not in the house, or if she is then the servants are unaware of the fact,” said Holmes. He thought for a moment, one finger pressed against his lips in that pose I knew of old. “It is an intriguing story, Mrs Foster, but I am not sure that any crime I recognise is being committed.”
“No crime? That poor young woman is a prisoner in her own home – I have the evidence of my own eyes!” Molly exclaimed.
He smiled slightly. “I fear that will not suffice in a court of law. Reprehensible it may be, but in law a father may lock up an underage daughter in his house should he see fit.”
“Holmes!” I objected, remembering poor Alice Rucastle, kept prisoner by her father because she would not sign over her inheritance to him.
“I did not say that I approved of the practise, Watson. But what makes you think that a murder will be committed, Mrs Foster?” Holmes asked. “From what you have told me, I can see nothing which might point to such an atrocious act.”
Molly shook her head. “I don’t know, Mr Holmes. I can’t tell you exactly, but…every fibre of my being tells me that there will be some harm done in that house before long. I can feel it!” She looked at me desperately, as if entreating me to believe her. “Things have changed there recently – Sam will tell you, he spends much of his time at the hall. Things have changed, and not for the good!”
I did not know what to say. I wanted to believe her, of course I did, but it was indeed fanciful. But then again, more than once in the past a woman’s fancies had been proved correct in such situations. Even Holmes had had to concede the value of a woman’s intuition, however reluctantly.
At length, he sighed. “Very well, Mrs Foster. I am between cases at present, and in view of your relationship to my friend Watson I will make some enquiries. However, I cannot promise to either confirm or allay your fears.”
A smile of relief swept over Molly’s face. I thought for a moment that she might launch herself at Holmes in much the same way as she had embraced me earlier, but she thankfully restrained herself, instead pouring a fresh cup of tea. “Thank you, Mr Holmes. If you can help that girl you will earn my eternal gratitude.”
***
The following morning, after a hearty breakfast during which Molly made a concerted attempt to get Holmes to eat a decent meal, claiming much to his horror that he needed fattening up, we accompanied Samuel up to the hall. Before we left, however, I took the opportunity to twit Holmes on his apparent encyclopaedic knowledge of Molly’s books, displayed during a conversation the previous evening.
“You did not tell me that your choice of reading matter extended to women’s novels,” I said mischievously as I found my hat.
“I did not deem it necessary. And, contrary to what you are thinking, I did not read them through personal choice; it was vital in order to help a client.”
“That sounds like an odd sort of case.”
“Two runaway schoolgirls were using the books as a means of communication - they devised a code based on the actions of the characters. It was quite ingenious for two so young,” Holmes replied, patting his pockets to make sure he had all the paraphernalia he usually carried with him. He had brought it all, as usual, even though I had forbidden him from working. It rankled slightly that my orders had been countermanded, but I could not say no to my own cousin, and there was no stopping Holmes once he scented a mystery.
I frowned now. “I do not recall such a case.”
“You were busy, and I was bored. It was a trifling matter, but it saved me from ennui for a few days.” He took his stick from the stand in the hall and looked at me expectantly. “Shall we go?”
It was a beautiful day, the sun steady in its ascent into the blue sky, the birds warbling in the trees and the crickets chirruping in the long grass as we walked. Holmes had decided to begin his investigations at the spot where the ‘missing’ girl had last been seen.
“I must thank you for humouring Molly, Mr Holmes,” Samuel said after a companionable silence, “though I fear you may be wasting your time.”
“You do not believe your wife’s story, Mr Foster?” Holmes enquired. I must confess that, had I not seen some of the things in my time with Holmes that I had, I might have Samuel’s reluctance to take the somewhat extraordinary story seriously. He hesitated for a moment before he said,
“I would like to, I swear I would, but I cannot credit it.”
“Molly would not lie, surely?” I said, not even wishing to consider the idea.
“No, certainly not. But I do think she may have been mistaken in what she thinks she saw. I visit the house several times a week, gentlemen, and I have not seen Miss Charlotte for at least a fortnight.”
Holmes swung his stick at the long grass on the side of the path. “We will discover the truth, one way or the other. How long have you been Sir George’s steward?”
“Ten years. Before that I worked as estate clerk to Mr Addleston, the previous steward,” Sam replied.
“So I presume you know the squire reasonably well. What can you tell me about him?”
“I wouldn’t say I know him well. Not sure anyone does – the squire is a private man, Mr Holmes. I’m led to believe that there was a great tragedy in his life which is why he never married, but he’s a good man, no matter what others say.”
“Molly tells us that Sir George has recently taken to the bottle,” I said.
Samuel nodded sadly. “That’s true enough. He made a scene in the Green Man – that’s the local tavern – and Mr Cranleigh the landlord had no choice but to send for the carriage and have Sir George taken home. He was in no fit state to get there by himself. But that’s not typical of him. Something must have happened to drive him to the drink.”
“Something between him and his daughter?” suggested Holmes.
“I suspect it. That’s the hall, there, gentlemen. Built in 1574 – the first Sir George entertained Queen Elizabeth here, and near bankrupted himself in the process.” Samuel raised an arm and pointed - we had crested the rise, and below us in a shallow valley stood the house, lovely in the morning sunlight. Melville Hall was a typical Elizabethan E-shape building of the mellow local stone, wings to the east and west connected by a central block. A gravelled drive swept up to the front door, approaching from the direction opposite to the one in which we had come, but it was the mullioned windows that evidently interested Holmes, and not the ground floor windows at that.
He pushed his stick into the soft earth and stood leaning upon it, regarding the house. “Now, that is interesting,” he said, and then addressed Samuel: “This lane – is it the one conferred on the villagers for their use by the squire’s ancestor?”
“It is indeed,” Foster replied. “Sir George’s grandfather gave the locals permission to cut across the estate when the town began to grow – many of them that don’t work on the estate found jobs there.”
“And this is the path your wife would have taken on...Tuesday, was it? When she claims to have seen Charlotte Melville at the window?” When Samuel responded in the affirmative, Holmes nodded. “I see. She would have been coming up that rise, with her back to the hall, if she were returning from the town as she says. So what was it that made her glance back to see the figure at the attic window?”
“Some noise? A cry?” I said.
“She mentioned nothing of the kind.”
“Perhaps some instinct caused her to look back at that moment.”
“Perhaps.” He did not sound convinced, sharp eyes sweeping over the ground. “Has there been any rain in the last few days?” he enquired.
Samuel shook his head. “Not since Monday night.”
“Excellent. That is exactly what I wished to hear.” A satisfied expression came over Holmes’s features, and as we watched he began to pace carefully along the path, eyes fixed upon the floor, hands clasped behind his back. After some time spent in this hunched position, taking careful, birdlike steps so as not to disturb something in the dried mud, he gave a great cry of delight and fell to his knees, one hand tugging his lens from the pocket of his jacket. With the aid of the glass, he proceeded to crawl along a stretch of the grass verge like a bloodhound, his nose barely two inches from the surface of the soil. Samuel glanced at me in confusion – I shrugged and shook my head. Holmes was on the scent of something, and whatever it was he would no doubt soon enlighten us.
I was not disappointed.
“Bicycle tracks!” he called, sitting back upon his heels and beckoning us to his side. “Tracks heading quite clearly from the direction of town.”
“Surely that merely corroborates Molly’s story,” I said.
He gave me a long-suffering glance. “If that is all, then explain to me the tracks heading in the opposite direction, Watson.”
“Presumably since Molly was returning, she would have passed this way earlier.”
“She didn’t,” said Samuel, surprising me. “If I recall correctly, she told me that she would take some groceries to old Mrs Tweedale who lives over near Tatworth. That journey would have taken her down Barton Lane.”
“Added to that is the fact that the two tracks have been made by two different sets of tyres,” said Holmes.
“Holmes is familiar with forty different impressions left by tyres,” I said, exchanging a glance with Samuel, who smiled.
My friend glared at me and said tartly, “Forty-two, actually, Watson. Another person rode this way, and stopped to speak with Mrs Foster. You can see where they have both rested their feet on the ground while they talked.”
Samuel frowned. “She never mentioned meeting anyone that day.”
“Why should she? It might be of no consequence to anyone unaware of the secret they shared,” said Holmes, getting to his feet and dusting off his knees.
I think we both must have gaped at him. “Secret?” I repeated, quite astonished. “What kind of secret?”
Holmes smiled slightly. “Ah, if we could determine that it would be a secret no longer.” He returned to the spot in which he had left his stick and retrieved it, swinging it over his shoulder. “Well, gentlemen, shall we continue to the house?” Without waiting for either of us to respond, he strode off down the hill towards Melville Hall.
Samuel shook his head. “He’s a right one and no mistake.”
“He is indeed,” I said, and hurried to catch up with my friend, Foster good-naturedly bringing up the rear.
We had not gone far, however, when a shout rang out, loud in the little valley, startling some birds from a nearby tree. The tone was not welcoming in the least, and to my alarm it was joined by a low growling.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing? This is private property – clear off or I’ll set the dog on you!”
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2972
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Genre: Mystery, Drama
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me. Hope Barton and its inhabitants do, however.
Summary: Molly Foster explains, and Holmes investigates...
Chapter One Chapter Two
JACK IN THE GREEN
CHAPTER THREE
Now winter is over I’m happy to say
And we’re all met again in our ribbons so gay
And we’re all met again on the first day of spring
To go about dancing with Jack In The Green
- Martin Graebe, performed by Magpie Lane
Holmes’s expression became puzzled. “You are sure that there will be a murder?”
Molly looked a little uncomfortable. “Not completely sure, no. But I fear something will happen.”
“Please, Mrs Foster, I am a detective, not a clairvoyant. I need facts and proofs, not a crystal ball. Why do you suspect this death?”
I exchanged a glance with my cousin. “You can tell us exactly what is on your mind, Molly,” I said, wishing that Holmes would be a little less blunt for once. Sometimes he could have all the subtlety of a traction engine.
“Well,” she said after taking a deep breath, “it’s like this, Mr Holmes. Back when I first married Samuel, I worked as governess to Miss Charlotte, the squire’s adopted daughter. She was an engaging little thing - I became very fond of her, and she of me in return. When she was fourteen she was sent abroad to complete her education at a school in Switzerland, and then spent some time with relatives in France. Last year she finally came home, and has been living up at the hall with her father.”
Holmes held up a finger. “Her name, her father’s name and her age now, if you please.”
“Charlotte Henrietta Melville. Her father’s name is Sir George Melville. She’s the daughter of one of his cousins, orphaned when she was barely two years old. Sir George never married, but he adopted her as his own and she’s his heir. She’s twenty, twenty-one in June.”
“And I take it that you are in some way concerned for this young lady?”
Molly got to her feet to attend to the lamps, even though the light had only just begun to fade. In the flickering glow from the taper I could make out worry lines on her face where there had been none earlier. “Being so close to her as she was growing up, I was overjoyed to see her back at the hall. She’d grown up, become a lady, but she was still the little girl I used to take upon my knee and tell stories to. She would come down here to the house and have tea, chat about her life abroad. You’d smile to see her, John; she’s such a spirited girl, so full of life.”
“I’m sure she is,” I said. “Did something happen to change that?”
“It’s been expected that soon her father will be finding a husband for her – he’s the last of the Melvilles, you see. There has been speculation as to who it would be, even a rumour that she already has a fiancé. She laughed them off, of course, and would say nothing. But then, we suddenly stopped seeing her about. She didn’t come here any more - my invitations were politely returned with a note that said Miss Charlotte had gone back to the continent, to stay with her relatives.”
“Is that unusual?” asked Holmes. I could tell by the way he was lounging in his chair, his arms dangling over the sides and all his usual attitudes of attention singularly absent, that he believed Molly to be a fanciful woman, worrying herself over nothing.
“She didn’t even say goodbye, Mr Holmes. Miss Charlotte wouldn’t do that, run off without a word to anybody! Rudeness of that kind just isn’t in her nature.”
“And what of her father? What is he like?”
“If you’d asked me six months ago, I would have said that there was never a more pleasant man on this earth than the squire. Miss Charlotte may not be his natural daughter, but she’s taken her cues from him. Sir George always had the well-being of his tenants at heart, would always look after his people.”
“You speak of him in the past tense – did something occur to change the squire’s temperament?”
“Drink, Mr Holmes,” Molly replied, “Many a man’s ruin. I never thought to see Sir George succumb, as he’s always been a man of such temperate habits, but it’s true enough. He and Miss Charlotte quarrelled often lately, so I’m told.”
“Then surely,” Holmes said, “is it not quite conceivable that they might have quarrelled over Sir George’s choice of husband, and Miss Charlotte has taken herself back to France in a fit of pique?”
I must confess that the explanation did seem to me to be a likely one, but Molly did not agree.
“That would be possible, were it not for something that occurred not three days ago when I was cycling back from town. There’s a lane that passes the hall – Sir George’s grandfather granted the villagers access some time in the last century – and as I rode I happened to glance up and see the attic windows. My heart nearly stopped – I could see, quite clearly, Miss Charlotte standing there, her hands pressed against the glass!” She looked at us both beseechingly. “She was trying to say something, but from that distance I could not make out the words. But I saw her, Mr Holmes, I saw her as clearly as I see you now!”
I looked at Holmes – he was sitting up straight in his chair, completely alert now. “You are quite certain it was Miss Melville?”
Molly nodded, her chin jutting determinedly. “I don’t imagine things, Mr Holmes. I’ve a sharp eye, and a brain in my head, and I know that it was Miss Charlotte at the window. I happened to run into the housekeeper as I reached home, and I asked her if the mistress had returned from her travels. You can imagine my astonishment when she told me that Sir George had received a letter that morning telling him that Miss Charlotte intended to remain in the south of France for the rest of the summer!”
“Why should she say such a thing if the girl is in the house?” I wondered.
“Because evidently either the girl is not in the house, or if she is then the servants are unaware of the fact,” said Holmes. He thought for a moment, one finger pressed against his lips in that pose I knew of old. “It is an intriguing story, Mrs Foster, but I am not sure that any crime I recognise is being committed.”
“No crime? That poor young woman is a prisoner in her own home – I have the evidence of my own eyes!” Molly exclaimed.
He smiled slightly. “I fear that will not suffice in a court of law. Reprehensible it may be, but in law a father may lock up an underage daughter in his house should he see fit.”
“Holmes!” I objected, remembering poor Alice Rucastle, kept prisoner by her father because she would not sign over her inheritance to him.
“I did not say that I approved of the practise, Watson. But what makes you think that a murder will be committed, Mrs Foster?” Holmes asked. “From what you have told me, I can see nothing which might point to such an atrocious act.”
Molly shook her head. “I don’t know, Mr Holmes. I can’t tell you exactly, but…every fibre of my being tells me that there will be some harm done in that house before long. I can feel it!” She looked at me desperately, as if entreating me to believe her. “Things have changed there recently – Sam will tell you, he spends much of his time at the hall. Things have changed, and not for the good!”
I did not know what to say. I wanted to believe her, of course I did, but it was indeed fanciful. But then again, more than once in the past a woman’s fancies had been proved correct in such situations. Even Holmes had had to concede the value of a woman’s intuition, however reluctantly.
At length, he sighed. “Very well, Mrs Foster. I am between cases at present, and in view of your relationship to my friend Watson I will make some enquiries. However, I cannot promise to either confirm or allay your fears.”
A smile of relief swept over Molly’s face. I thought for a moment that she might launch herself at Holmes in much the same way as she had embraced me earlier, but she thankfully restrained herself, instead pouring a fresh cup of tea. “Thank you, Mr Holmes. If you can help that girl you will earn my eternal gratitude.”
***
The following morning, after a hearty breakfast during which Molly made a concerted attempt to get Holmes to eat a decent meal, claiming much to his horror that he needed fattening up, we accompanied Samuel up to the hall. Before we left, however, I took the opportunity to twit Holmes on his apparent encyclopaedic knowledge of Molly’s books, displayed during a conversation the previous evening.
“You did not tell me that your choice of reading matter extended to women’s novels,” I said mischievously as I found my hat.
“I did not deem it necessary. And, contrary to what you are thinking, I did not read them through personal choice; it was vital in order to help a client.”
“That sounds like an odd sort of case.”
“Two runaway schoolgirls were using the books as a means of communication - they devised a code based on the actions of the characters. It was quite ingenious for two so young,” Holmes replied, patting his pockets to make sure he had all the paraphernalia he usually carried with him. He had brought it all, as usual, even though I had forbidden him from working. It rankled slightly that my orders had been countermanded, but I could not say no to my own cousin, and there was no stopping Holmes once he scented a mystery.
I frowned now. “I do not recall such a case.”
“You were busy, and I was bored. It was a trifling matter, but it saved me from ennui for a few days.” He took his stick from the stand in the hall and looked at me expectantly. “Shall we go?”
It was a beautiful day, the sun steady in its ascent into the blue sky, the birds warbling in the trees and the crickets chirruping in the long grass as we walked. Holmes had decided to begin his investigations at the spot where the ‘missing’ girl had last been seen.
“I must thank you for humouring Molly, Mr Holmes,” Samuel said after a companionable silence, “though I fear you may be wasting your time.”
“You do not believe your wife’s story, Mr Foster?” Holmes enquired. I must confess that, had I not seen some of the things in my time with Holmes that I had, I might have Samuel’s reluctance to take the somewhat extraordinary story seriously. He hesitated for a moment before he said,
“I would like to, I swear I would, but I cannot credit it.”
“Molly would not lie, surely?” I said, not even wishing to consider the idea.
“No, certainly not. But I do think she may have been mistaken in what she thinks she saw. I visit the house several times a week, gentlemen, and I have not seen Miss Charlotte for at least a fortnight.”
Holmes swung his stick at the long grass on the side of the path. “We will discover the truth, one way or the other. How long have you been Sir George’s steward?”
“Ten years. Before that I worked as estate clerk to Mr Addleston, the previous steward,” Sam replied.
“So I presume you know the squire reasonably well. What can you tell me about him?”
“I wouldn’t say I know him well. Not sure anyone does – the squire is a private man, Mr Holmes. I’m led to believe that there was a great tragedy in his life which is why he never married, but he’s a good man, no matter what others say.”
“Molly tells us that Sir George has recently taken to the bottle,” I said.
Samuel nodded sadly. “That’s true enough. He made a scene in the Green Man – that’s the local tavern – and Mr Cranleigh the landlord had no choice but to send for the carriage and have Sir George taken home. He was in no fit state to get there by himself. But that’s not typical of him. Something must have happened to drive him to the drink.”
“Something between him and his daughter?” suggested Holmes.
“I suspect it. That’s the hall, there, gentlemen. Built in 1574 – the first Sir George entertained Queen Elizabeth here, and near bankrupted himself in the process.” Samuel raised an arm and pointed - we had crested the rise, and below us in a shallow valley stood the house, lovely in the morning sunlight. Melville Hall was a typical Elizabethan E-shape building of the mellow local stone, wings to the east and west connected by a central block. A gravelled drive swept up to the front door, approaching from the direction opposite to the one in which we had come, but it was the mullioned windows that evidently interested Holmes, and not the ground floor windows at that.
He pushed his stick into the soft earth and stood leaning upon it, regarding the house. “Now, that is interesting,” he said, and then addressed Samuel: “This lane – is it the one conferred on the villagers for their use by the squire’s ancestor?”
“It is indeed,” Foster replied. “Sir George’s grandfather gave the locals permission to cut across the estate when the town began to grow – many of them that don’t work on the estate found jobs there.”
“And this is the path your wife would have taken on...Tuesday, was it? When she claims to have seen Charlotte Melville at the window?” When Samuel responded in the affirmative, Holmes nodded. “I see. She would have been coming up that rise, with her back to the hall, if she were returning from the town as she says. So what was it that made her glance back to see the figure at the attic window?”
“Some noise? A cry?” I said.
“She mentioned nothing of the kind.”
“Perhaps some instinct caused her to look back at that moment.”
“Perhaps.” He did not sound convinced, sharp eyes sweeping over the ground. “Has there been any rain in the last few days?” he enquired.
Samuel shook his head. “Not since Monday night.”
“Excellent. That is exactly what I wished to hear.” A satisfied expression came over Holmes’s features, and as we watched he began to pace carefully along the path, eyes fixed upon the floor, hands clasped behind his back. After some time spent in this hunched position, taking careful, birdlike steps so as not to disturb something in the dried mud, he gave a great cry of delight and fell to his knees, one hand tugging his lens from the pocket of his jacket. With the aid of the glass, he proceeded to crawl along a stretch of the grass verge like a bloodhound, his nose barely two inches from the surface of the soil. Samuel glanced at me in confusion – I shrugged and shook my head. Holmes was on the scent of something, and whatever it was he would no doubt soon enlighten us.
I was not disappointed.
“Bicycle tracks!” he called, sitting back upon his heels and beckoning us to his side. “Tracks heading quite clearly from the direction of town.”
“Surely that merely corroborates Molly’s story,” I said.
He gave me a long-suffering glance. “If that is all, then explain to me the tracks heading in the opposite direction, Watson.”
“Presumably since Molly was returning, she would have passed this way earlier.”
“She didn’t,” said Samuel, surprising me. “If I recall correctly, she told me that she would take some groceries to old Mrs Tweedale who lives over near Tatworth. That journey would have taken her down Barton Lane.”
“Added to that is the fact that the two tracks have been made by two different sets of tyres,” said Holmes.
“Holmes is familiar with forty different impressions left by tyres,” I said, exchanging a glance with Samuel, who smiled.
My friend glared at me and said tartly, “Forty-two, actually, Watson. Another person rode this way, and stopped to speak with Mrs Foster. You can see where they have both rested their feet on the ground while they talked.”
Samuel frowned. “She never mentioned meeting anyone that day.”
“Why should she? It might be of no consequence to anyone unaware of the secret they shared,” said Holmes, getting to his feet and dusting off his knees.
I think we both must have gaped at him. “Secret?” I repeated, quite astonished. “What kind of secret?”
Holmes smiled slightly. “Ah, if we could determine that it would be a secret no longer.” He returned to the spot in which he had left his stick and retrieved it, swinging it over his shoulder. “Well, gentlemen, shall we continue to the house?” Without waiting for either of us to respond, he strode off down the hill towards Melville Hall.
Samuel shook his head. “He’s a right one and no mistake.”
“He is indeed,” I said, and hurried to catch up with my friend, Foster good-naturedly bringing up the rear.
We had not gone far, however, when a shout rang out, loud in the little valley, startling some birds from a nearby tree. The tone was not welcoming in the least, and to my alarm it was joined by a low growling.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing? This is private property – clear off or I’ll set the dog on you!”
TBC
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Nice, very nice - so many of those lines could come straight out of Canon (or 'Nada Canon) and I for one would never be able to tell the difference!
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And, yes, Holmes has all the tact of a very tactless person indeed at times. :)