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charleygirlTitle: The Inheritance of Barnabus Aloysius Peabody 2/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 3770
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
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: There may be more to Mrs Peabody's problem than meets the eye...
Chapter One
THE INHERITANCE OF BARNABUS ALOYSIUS PEABODY
CHAPTER TWO
As we stood to leave for Mrs Peabody’s house, Ptolemy noticed our activity and came running up, waving a hand in the air.
“Mama!” he called, “Mama, before you go I need to tell cousin Sherlock about - ”
“Cousin Sherlock does not need to hear about that now, Ptolemy,” Cressida replied firmly, interrupting him. “Go and play with Xanthe – she has been very upset over Barnabus Aloysius’s disappearance, and she needs you to look after her.”
“But, Mama, you know that – Xanthe told you - ”
She eyed him with a stern gaze. “Now, please, Ptolemy.”
“Cousin Sherlock,” Ptolemy tried, turning to my friend in appeal, “You really, really need to know this - ”
“I think that we must comply with your mother’s request, Master Cunningham,” Holmes said, seeing that Cressida was rapidly becoming irked with her son. “We will talk later, if that if what you wish.”
Reluctantly, Ptolemy nodded. “It is very important, don’t forget,” he insisted, but did not try to protest further. Instead he turned and made his way back to where his sister sat on a swing at the end of the garden. Words passed between them but I could not hear what was said from such a distance. Holmes watched the lad go with a thoughtful expression which made me wonder if he was in some way recalling his own childhood. Before we visited Cressida’s home I could never imagine my friend as ever having been a child, but having met Ptolemy I could well picture him with the lad’s forwardness and complete self-confidence in the presence of adults.
“You should be very proud of that boy,” he told his cousin, as we followed her back through the house. “Such keen intelligence needs careful nurturing.”
“And so we are aware, Sherlock, I assure you. He will start school in the winter term – there is little more that Miss Runciman can teach him,” Cressida replied.
“And then?”
“And then it will be for him to decide, but at present he has ambitions to be a soldier like his father.”
Holmes blanched, as far as it was possible for one of his natural pallor to do. “The army?” he repeated in a tone that would not have been out of place had Cressida suggested sending her son to the moon.
“The army is an honourable profession, Holmes,” I chided gently, reminding him with a glance that I had been a soldier myself.
“What would you have him do, become a ‘private consulting detective’? Or a government clerk like Mycroft?” Cressida demanded icily.
Holmes smiled slightly at the mention of his brother’s position, the truth of which was evidently not common knowledge within the family. He said, “He clearly has the brain and talent for observation which would, given time, enable him to excel at either.”
His cousin gave a very unladylike snort. “I very much hope not! I mean Ptolemy to have a proper, normal career, which will be something of an innovation in our family. Not one of the Holmes men has ever done anything sensible with his life. I remember old Uncle Beauregard and his attempts to introduce camel racing at Epsom…”
“You forget, my dear cousin, that our family has not, and never will be, normal,” Holmes pointed out before I could ask her to elaborate on such a tantalising statement.
“More’s the pity,” she said, in a voice which effectively closed the subject. Picking up a shawl from the hall table, she led us back out into the afternoon sunshine. “In any case, I did not request your presence here this afternoon to discuss my son’s prospects, but to find Barnabus Aloysius.”
Holmes and I exchanged a glance.
“Who is this Barnabus Aloysius?” I asked, confused.
My friend sighed. “I rather think it is the name of the unfortunate cat, Watson.”
***
Mrs Peabody’s house was reached via a wicket gate in the front garden. Cressida strode through the rather overgrown herbaceous borders, looking neither left or right, ascended the steps and rang the bell to the right of a black door which appeared in need of a coat of paint. She did not once glance behind her to make sure that we were following, instead apparently taking our obedience for granted. Her confidence was absolute, and reminded me very much of Holmes in one of his more masterful moods.
Her summons was answered almost immediately by a slightly out of breath and overweight young maid.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Cunningham,” she said, stepping aside to allow us into the large, rather gloomy hall. In contrast to the bright, sun-dappled home we had just left, this house seemed somehow sad, almost neglected, as though the life had seeped away from it. I tried not to shiver, for the hall was chilly after the warmth of the afternoon outside. “Mrs Peabody is expecting you.”
“You were very confident of my agreeing to accept the case,” Holmes murmured to his cousin, eyes narrowed.
Cressida just raised her perfectly-plucked brows a fraction in response and made her way across the hall to a closed door in the shadows of the stairwell. She was obviously a regular visitor, for she knew exactly where she was going. The maid, moving far quicker than I would have expected one of her girth to do, beat her to it by a fraction of a second, and threw open the door, readying herself to announce us. Before she could do more than take a breath, however, a slightly querulous voice called from the room beyond:
“Is that you, Cressida, my dear? Have you brought him?”
“I have, Eliza,” Cressida replied, her stern face softening for the first time into a genuine smile. “Allow me to present my cousin, Mr Sherlock Holmes, and his friend Doctor Watson.”
Holmes had hung back in the hall for a moment, and so I entered the cluttered, stuffy parlour first to find myself being scrutinised by a stout, elderly woman in black bombazine and a widow’s cap. She peered at me for a moment before feeling amongst the frills adorning her ample bosom to produce a long-handled lorgnette, through which she looked me up and down with evident disappointment.
“Oh,” she said, letting the spectacles drop back into place with a suddenly limp hand. “You’re not quite what I was expecting. I confess I am not sure how a detective should look, but…”
“I - ” I began, but Cressida interrupted me with an impatient sigh.
“No, Eliza, that is Doctor Watson.” She looked around for Holmes, who at that moment completed whatever investigation he had been making of the hall and joined us amid the profusion of stuffed birds, photographs and antimacassars. Cressida’s mouth tightened and her eyes glittered when she saw him. “Sherlock, what on earth have you been doing?” she demanded.
“Observing, my dear cousin,” he replied, her irritation sliding off him as water does from the feathers of a duck.
Mrs Peabody quickly retrieved her lorgnette. “Is this him?”
“Sherlock Holmes, madam, at your service,” Holmes replied with a slight bow.
She regarded him for a long moment before nodding decisively. “Yes, I can see that. At least you didn’t inherit that unfortunate nose, Cressy,” she remarked, adding before either Holmes or Cressida could protest, “Sit down, all of you – I can’t stand people milling about.”
We did so, Cressida taking the armchair on the opposite side of the hearth to Mrs Peabody’s own, while Holmes and I tried not to lose ourselves within the cushions of an overstuffed sofa. It was only when we were seated that I realised there was another person in the room, who had made neither sound nor movement since we had entered. A mousy woman of what my mother would have termed ‘an age’, she sat on a low stool at the side of Mrs Peabody’s chair, wire-rimmed pince-nez upon her long nose and an open book in her lap. She did not look up, or show that she was even aware of our presence. Mrs Peabody effected no introduction, and indeed gave no sign of being aware that she was even in the room at all, which I found most curious. I was on the verge of enquiring the lady’s name when Holmes drew my attention back to the matter in hand.
“Now,” he said, somehow sitting back on the sofa without immediately vanishing into its depths, “Mrs Peabody. Please tell me the exact circumstances in which you came to mislay your cat.”
“Mislaid?” Mrs Peabody looked affronted. “I can assure you, Mr Holmes, that I have never ‘mislaid’ Barnabus Aloysius in my life! Someone has abducted him, and I need you to find them!”
“Indeed? I fear you must elaborate for my benefit. Why should anyone wish to abduct a family pet? Was it of particular value?”
“Barnabus Aloysius is rather more than just an ordinary pet, Sherlock,” said Cressida. She looked at Mrs Peabody. “You had better tell him the truth, Eliza.”
“Must I? But, whatever will he think? It is most irregular…” the widow muttered, flustered.
Holmes lifted an eyebrow. “If I am to assist you, madam, you must be entirely frank with me.”
“You may trust our discretion, ma’am,” I added. “We have kept the secrets of many over the years – even those of kings.” From the corner of my eye I could see Holmes’s mouth twitch in annoyance, but my words had the desired effect upon the lady.
“Well,” she said folding her hands in her lap and looking from one of us to the other and back again, “in that case I suppose I can tell you. The truth is, gentlemen, that Barnabus Aloysius has always been a member of the family. He has been my company for many years, while my darling Hector was away on business, and I must admit that he is more of a child to me than a pet. It is because of this, and because sadly Hector and I could not have children of our own, that I have made the decision to name Barnabus Aloysius as my heir.”
***
Silence reigned in the parlour for some moments after this admission. I could see from his expression that Holmes’s brain was racing away with the information, but my own reaction was rather more prosaic.
“You have bequeathed your estate to a cat?” I queried a little incredulously. “Is that not a trifle…irregular?”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs Peabody, bristling defensively, “but as there is no one else in the world to whom I would rather leave my worldly goods, it makes perfect sense to me.”
“You have no family at all? No siblings…cousins?”
She shook her head. “My sister died ten years ago, after running away with a penniless poet, of you please! She broke our mother’s heart, and she and our father quite disowned her. I believe she had children – one of them even wrote to my dear Hector after her funeral, requesting an interview with me but he refused. Quite rightly he told them that it would be far too distressing for me given the way in which their mother had treated the family. It took us all no little time to recover from the scandal.”
“So you have never seen these children? It seems a pity to have family and yet be estranged from them,” I said, aware of the glances Holmes and Cressida exchanged over my head. Their own familial relationship could hardly be termed close, but then such a situation appeared to be perfectly natural to them. To me it seemed quite alien, and quite sad for all involved, to have no contact with one’s own flesh and blood.
“They were only trying to see what they could obtain for themselves,” Mrs Peabody said, clutching almost reflexively at the locket about her neck. Her voice rose in agitation as she continued, “Their parents would not have left them anything, and Hector was a man of some means. I am sure that they meant to inveigle their way into our affections with a view to gaining an inheritance. They have written to me again since Hector’s death, no doubt wishing to try their luck. Well, it shall not be! Barnabus Aloysius is to have the lot, and whatever is left when he eventually passes on will go to a charity for sick and distressed animals. That is my wish.”
I nodded, backing away down the sofa a little under this tirade and wishing I had never broached the subject, for it was plainly a very sore point. In the resulting pause, Holmes sat forwards, one finger to his lips.
“When did you make the decision to change your will?” he enquired.
The widow blinked in surprise. “How did you know that I had altered the bequest?” she demanded. “Have you been spying upon me, Mr Holmes?”
Holmes smiled briefly. “Madam, I may be many things but I am not omniscient. I had no inkling even of your existence until my cousin asked me to this afternoon look into your case. I would merely observe that as the animal has gone missing in the last few days, some event must have prompted the disappearance. Was it your own idea to change your will?”
“Of course. I was not sure precisely what I wanted to do with the money, but I was adamant that it should not fall into the hands of my sister’s children.”
“And someone suggested leaving everything to Barnabus Aloysius?” Holmes asked.
“My solicitor told me recently of a client who had bequeathed his entire estate to his favourite greyhound. The animal was kept in the very highest style for the rest of his days. I want nothing but the best for my darling and this is the most sensible way of assuring that,” Mrs Peabody said quite seriously.
“And if the animal predeceases you?”
“Then the money will pass directly to the charity. I have made quite sure of the details.”
“I see. And you believe your cat has been abducted precisely because he has become your heir?” Holmes asked the question with apparently sincerity, but I had to cover my mouth with my hand to hide my smile, for the situation was quite ludicrous. I was astounded that any lawyer worth his salt would even suggest such a scheme, and even doubted the legality of leaving an apparently large sum of money to a pet.
Mrs Peabody nodded. “Of course! It is the only explanation. Whoever has taken him intends to hold him to ransom. You must find him for me, Mr Holmes!”
“Ransom? Ah, then you have had a demand for money in exchange for his safety. I should like to see it.” Holmes flicked out a hand expectantly, but the lady produced no letter. Instead she looked a little uncomfortable, avoiding his gaze and tapping her fingers upon the arm of her chair.
Cressida spoke in answer to her cousin’s quizzical frown. “There has been no ransom letter.”
“No ransom…? Mrs Peabody,” said Holmes, making what appeared to be a valiant attempt to curb the irritation which was evidently welling up within him, “upon what evidence do you base this theory of abduction if there has been no demand? As far as I can ascertain, it is quite likely that the animal has walked from the house of his own accord!”
“That, Mr Holmes, is quite impossible,” the widow replied, glaring at him.
My friend sighed sharply. “Why?” he asked.
Mrs Peabody lay back in her chair and tapped the woman sitting beside her on the shoulder. “Jane, do show him Barnabus Aloysius’s room. I need to rest – all this questioning has quite exhausted me.”
Jane rose smoothly, brushing down her skirts. “If you will follow me, Mr Holmes?” Her voice was soft, and as nondescript as her appearance. She moved as though gliding across the floor, and I received the overwhelming impression of a woman who had spent much of her life trying to be invisible.
“Watson,” Holmes said, beckoning me to accompany him. Cressida would have come too, but saw that she could not leave Mrs Peabody alone and reluctantly remained in her seat. Her resentment at being left out of such a crucial part of the investigation was almost tangible, and I felt her sharp eyes upon me as I left the room.
“You are Mrs Peabody’s companion, Miss -?” I asked as the quiet Jane led us down a dark corridor. Ahead a door stood ajar and I could hear a female voice humming. The clatter of crockery marked the room beyond out as the kitchen, and my assumption was further reinforced by the delicious scents wafting from within which caused my nostrils to twitch. At the end of the passage sunlight fell through a small stained glass panel in another door which must lead to the garden – bright colours dropped like jewels upon the rush matting which covered the floor, the only cheerful sight since we had entered this rather joyless house.
“Grey, sir, and I am indeed,” Jane replied. She ventured no further information, but opened a third door, revealing a small chamber which held a piano, a stool and little else. A smell pervaded the room, and though it was less than pleasant I was sure I recognised it. When I caught sight of the wicker basket, lined with cushioned velvet, which sat upon the closed lid of the piano, I realised what it was – the room smelled overwhelmingly of cat. “This is Barnabus Aloysius’s room.”
“Does the animal spend all its time in here?” Holmes enquired, reaching into his coat and withdrawing the magnifying glass he always carried with him.
Miss Grey shook her head. “Only at night, or when Mrs Peabody is out. She cannot have him in the bedroom because he will not settle – the only place he will sleep is on top of the piano.”
“Could the cat have escaped of its own accord?” I asked. The basket was covered with long, white strands, some of which Holmes removed with a pair of tweezers and stowed away in an envelope, no doubt for later analysis, but I could see few over the carpet.
“Never. Barnabus Aloysius is an elderly cat, and as Mrs Peabody will insist upon feeding him sweets, also an extremely fat one. He is taken everywhere in his basket, and only ever makes an attempt to leave it when his food is served.”
I bit back my immediate desire to remark that the cat sounded remarkably like Holmes’s brother Mycroft and looked around the room instead. There was little to see. It did not appear to have been cleaned recently, and I could see dust motes dancing in the light which trickled through the grimy windowpane. For all her apparent wealth, Mrs Peabody’s domestic arrangements left much to be desired. I tried tapping one of the piano keys, and discovered it to be out of tune.
“Do you have charge of the animal’s care, Miss Grey?” said Holmes, turning his attention to the floor. The companion watched impassively as he stretched out upon hands and knees, his glass barely an inch from its surface, like some great black-carapaced insect.
“I do not,” she said. “Mrs Hanway, the cook and housekeeper, deals with him. I have my duties with Mrs Peabody.”
“I see.” Holmes was silent for some minutes as he made his examination of the floor. The room was barely large enough for the three of us and the piano – Miss Grey had remained in the doorway and I found myself perching upon the stool to make way for Holmes and his lens, lifting my feet out of his path. He eventually fetched up almost at Miss Grey’s skirts, and sat back upon his heels. “Is the door locked at night?”
“It was not considered necessary. The cat could not walk away, and the entire house is secured at eight o’clock every evening. I lock all the exterior doors myself.”
“Including the one at the end of the hall?”
“Especially that one.”
“Of course, that door would be the only possible escape route for a would-be catnapper, would it not?” Holmes gave one of his swift smiles. “I take it that there was nothing amiss on Tuesday morning when you came down to breakfast?”
“Nothing,” said Miss Grey. “The garden door was still bolted on the inside as I had left it. We summoned the police at Mrs Peabody’s insistence but they examined the ground in vain.”
“So Barnabus Aloysius vanished into thin air. A somewhat unlikely occurrence,” my friend muttered. He climbed to his feet, brushing off his trousers. A speck of dirt appeared to cling stubbornly to the fabric and I offered him my handkerchief which he used to dust his knees before pocketing both it and his lens. “I should like to speak to the housekeeper,” he announced.
“Of course.” Miss Grey stood aside to allow us to leave the room and closed the door behind us. As she did I caught sight of her hand on the doorknob – the skin was mottled red and white with a nasty (and no doubt painful) rash. My medical instincts coming to the fore I immediately took her wrist in a gentle hold for a closer examination, only for her to draw it away.
“You have hurt yourself, Miss Grey,” I said, concerned, for the area was somewhat inflamed.
“It is nothing,” she responded calmly. “A slight accident.”
“I am a doctor, ma’am, and I do not agree. You should have it attended to at once. How did you come by it?”
She met my gaze with a rather unnervingly direct stare, a surprise after her refusal to look in my direction in the presence of Mrs Peabody. “I was doing some work in the garden a few days ago and encountered a bed of nettles. That is all.”
“One would hope that you also discovered a ready supply of dock leaves,” Holmes remarked with – in my view – misplaced jocularity.
Miss Grey turned her gaze upon him. He merely raised an eyebrow in response. “I did, thank you,” she said. “Mrs Hanway is in the kitchen, if you will come.”
“That was uncalled for, Holmes,” I hissed to my friend as he moved to follow.
He shook his head and briefly touched my shoulder. “Leave it, Watson,” he murmured, before we were ushered into the presence of Mrs Hanway and I was forcibly reminded that it been several hours since luncheon.
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 3770
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
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: There may be more to Mrs Peabody's problem than meets the eye...
THE INHERITANCE OF BARNABUS ALOYSIUS PEABODY
CHAPTER TWO
As we stood to leave for Mrs Peabody’s house, Ptolemy noticed our activity and came running up, waving a hand in the air.
“Mama!” he called, “Mama, before you go I need to tell cousin Sherlock about - ”
“Cousin Sherlock does not need to hear about that now, Ptolemy,” Cressida replied firmly, interrupting him. “Go and play with Xanthe – she has been very upset over Barnabus Aloysius’s disappearance, and she needs you to look after her.”
“But, Mama, you know that – Xanthe told you - ”
She eyed him with a stern gaze. “Now, please, Ptolemy.”
“Cousin Sherlock,” Ptolemy tried, turning to my friend in appeal, “You really, really need to know this - ”
“I think that we must comply with your mother’s request, Master Cunningham,” Holmes said, seeing that Cressida was rapidly becoming irked with her son. “We will talk later, if that if what you wish.”
Reluctantly, Ptolemy nodded. “It is very important, don’t forget,” he insisted, but did not try to protest further. Instead he turned and made his way back to where his sister sat on a swing at the end of the garden. Words passed between them but I could not hear what was said from such a distance. Holmes watched the lad go with a thoughtful expression which made me wonder if he was in some way recalling his own childhood. Before we visited Cressida’s home I could never imagine my friend as ever having been a child, but having met Ptolemy I could well picture him with the lad’s forwardness and complete self-confidence in the presence of adults.
“You should be very proud of that boy,” he told his cousin, as we followed her back through the house. “Such keen intelligence needs careful nurturing.”
“And so we are aware, Sherlock, I assure you. He will start school in the winter term – there is little more that Miss Runciman can teach him,” Cressida replied.
“And then?”
“And then it will be for him to decide, but at present he has ambitions to be a soldier like his father.”
Holmes blanched, as far as it was possible for one of his natural pallor to do. “The army?” he repeated in a tone that would not have been out of place had Cressida suggested sending her son to the moon.
“The army is an honourable profession, Holmes,” I chided gently, reminding him with a glance that I had been a soldier myself.
“What would you have him do, become a ‘private consulting detective’? Or a government clerk like Mycroft?” Cressida demanded icily.
Holmes smiled slightly at the mention of his brother’s position, the truth of which was evidently not common knowledge within the family. He said, “He clearly has the brain and talent for observation which would, given time, enable him to excel at either.”
His cousin gave a very unladylike snort. “I very much hope not! I mean Ptolemy to have a proper, normal career, which will be something of an innovation in our family. Not one of the Holmes men has ever done anything sensible with his life. I remember old Uncle Beauregard and his attempts to introduce camel racing at Epsom…”
“You forget, my dear cousin, that our family has not, and never will be, normal,” Holmes pointed out before I could ask her to elaborate on such a tantalising statement.
“More’s the pity,” she said, in a voice which effectively closed the subject. Picking up a shawl from the hall table, she led us back out into the afternoon sunshine. “In any case, I did not request your presence here this afternoon to discuss my son’s prospects, but to find Barnabus Aloysius.”
Holmes and I exchanged a glance.
“Who is this Barnabus Aloysius?” I asked, confused.
My friend sighed. “I rather think it is the name of the unfortunate cat, Watson.”
***
Mrs Peabody’s house was reached via a wicket gate in the front garden. Cressida strode through the rather overgrown herbaceous borders, looking neither left or right, ascended the steps and rang the bell to the right of a black door which appeared in need of a coat of paint. She did not once glance behind her to make sure that we were following, instead apparently taking our obedience for granted. Her confidence was absolute, and reminded me very much of Holmes in one of his more masterful moods.
Her summons was answered almost immediately by a slightly out of breath and overweight young maid.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Cunningham,” she said, stepping aside to allow us into the large, rather gloomy hall. In contrast to the bright, sun-dappled home we had just left, this house seemed somehow sad, almost neglected, as though the life had seeped away from it. I tried not to shiver, for the hall was chilly after the warmth of the afternoon outside. “Mrs Peabody is expecting you.”
“You were very confident of my agreeing to accept the case,” Holmes murmured to his cousin, eyes narrowed.
Cressida just raised her perfectly-plucked brows a fraction in response and made her way across the hall to a closed door in the shadows of the stairwell. She was obviously a regular visitor, for she knew exactly where she was going. The maid, moving far quicker than I would have expected one of her girth to do, beat her to it by a fraction of a second, and threw open the door, readying herself to announce us. Before she could do more than take a breath, however, a slightly querulous voice called from the room beyond:
“Is that you, Cressida, my dear? Have you brought him?”
“I have, Eliza,” Cressida replied, her stern face softening for the first time into a genuine smile. “Allow me to present my cousin, Mr Sherlock Holmes, and his friend Doctor Watson.”
Holmes had hung back in the hall for a moment, and so I entered the cluttered, stuffy parlour first to find myself being scrutinised by a stout, elderly woman in black bombazine and a widow’s cap. She peered at me for a moment before feeling amongst the frills adorning her ample bosom to produce a long-handled lorgnette, through which she looked me up and down with evident disappointment.
“Oh,” she said, letting the spectacles drop back into place with a suddenly limp hand. “You’re not quite what I was expecting. I confess I am not sure how a detective should look, but…”
“I - ” I began, but Cressida interrupted me with an impatient sigh.
“No, Eliza, that is Doctor Watson.” She looked around for Holmes, who at that moment completed whatever investigation he had been making of the hall and joined us amid the profusion of stuffed birds, photographs and antimacassars. Cressida’s mouth tightened and her eyes glittered when she saw him. “Sherlock, what on earth have you been doing?” she demanded.
“Observing, my dear cousin,” he replied, her irritation sliding off him as water does from the feathers of a duck.
Mrs Peabody quickly retrieved her lorgnette. “Is this him?”
“Sherlock Holmes, madam, at your service,” Holmes replied with a slight bow.
She regarded him for a long moment before nodding decisively. “Yes, I can see that. At least you didn’t inherit that unfortunate nose, Cressy,” she remarked, adding before either Holmes or Cressida could protest, “Sit down, all of you – I can’t stand people milling about.”
We did so, Cressida taking the armchair on the opposite side of the hearth to Mrs Peabody’s own, while Holmes and I tried not to lose ourselves within the cushions of an overstuffed sofa. It was only when we were seated that I realised there was another person in the room, who had made neither sound nor movement since we had entered. A mousy woman of what my mother would have termed ‘an age’, she sat on a low stool at the side of Mrs Peabody’s chair, wire-rimmed pince-nez upon her long nose and an open book in her lap. She did not look up, or show that she was even aware of our presence. Mrs Peabody effected no introduction, and indeed gave no sign of being aware that she was even in the room at all, which I found most curious. I was on the verge of enquiring the lady’s name when Holmes drew my attention back to the matter in hand.
“Now,” he said, somehow sitting back on the sofa without immediately vanishing into its depths, “Mrs Peabody. Please tell me the exact circumstances in which you came to mislay your cat.”
“Mislaid?” Mrs Peabody looked affronted. “I can assure you, Mr Holmes, that I have never ‘mislaid’ Barnabus Aloysius in my life! Someone has abducted him, and I need you to find them!”
“Indeed? I fear you must elaborate for my benefit. Why should anyone wish to abduct a family pet? Was it of particular value?”
“Barnabus Aloysius is rather more than just an ordinary pet, Sherlock,” said Cressida. She looked at Mrs Peabody. “You had better tell him the truth, Eliza.”
“Must I? But, whatever will he think? It is most irregular…” the widow muttered, flustered.
Holmes lifted an eyebrow. “If I am to assist you, madam, you must be entirely frank with me.”
“You may trust our discretion, ma’am,” I added. “We have kept the secrets of many over the years – even those of kings.” From the corner of my eye I could see Holmes’s mouth twitch in annoyance, but my words had the desired effect upon the lady.
“Well,” she said folding her hands in her lap and looking from one of us to the other and back again, “in that case I suppose I can tell you. The truth is, gentlemen, that Barnabus Aloysius has always been a member of the family. He has been my company for many years, while my darling Hector was away on business, and I must admit that he is more of a child to me than a pet. It is because of this, and because sadly Hector and I could not have children of our own, that I have made the decision to name Barnabus Aloysius as my heir.”
***
Silence reigned in the parlour for some moments after this admission. I could see from his expression that Holmes’s brain was racing away with the information, but my own reaction was rather more prosaic.
“You have bequeathed your estate to a cat?” I queried a little incredulously. “Is that not a trifle…irregular?”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs Peabody, bristling defensively, “but as there is no one else in the world to whom I would rather leave my worldly goods, it makes perfect sense to me.”
“You have no family at all? No siblings…cousins?”
She shook her head. “My sister died ten years ago, after running away with a penniless poet, of you please! She broke our mother’s heart, and she and our father quite disowned her. I believe she had children – one of them even wrote to my dear Hector after her funeral, requesting an interview with me but he refused. Quite rightly he told them that it would be far too distressing for me given the way in which their mother had treated the family. It took us all no little time to recover from the scandal.”
“So you have never seen these children? It seems a pity to have family and yet be estranged from them,” I said, aware of the glances Holmes and Cressida exchanged over my head. Their own familial relationship could hardly be termed close, but then such a situation appeared to be perfectly natural to them. To me it seemed quite alien, and quite sad for all involved, to have no contact with one’s own flesh and blood.
“They were only trying to see what they could obtain for themselves,” Mrs Peabody said, clutching almost reflexively at the locket about her neck. Her voice rose in agitation as she continued, “Their parents would not have left them anything, and Hector was a man of some means. I am sure that they meant to inveigle their way into our affections with a view to gaining an inheritance. They have written to me again since Hector’s death, no doubt wishing to try their luck. Well, it shall not be! Barnabus Aloysius is to have the lot, and whatever is left when he eventually passes on will go to a charity for sick and distressed animals. That is my wish.”
I nodded, backing away down the sofa a little under this tirade and wishing I had never broached the subject, for it was plainly a very sore point. In the resulting pause, Holmes sat forwards, one finger to his lips.
“When did you make the decision to change your will?” he enquired.
The widow blinked in surprise. “How did you know that I had altered the bequest?” she demanded. “Have you been spying upon me, Mr Holmes?”
Holmes smiled briefly. “Madam, I may be many things but I am not omniscient. I had no inkling even of your existence until my cousin asked me to this afternoon look into your case. I would merely observe that as the animal has gone missing in the last few days, some event must have prompted the disappearance. Was it your own idea to change your will?”
“Of course. I was not sure precisely what I wanted to do with the money, but I was adamant that it should not fall into the hands of my sister’s children.”
“And someone suggested leaving everything to Barnabus Aloysius?” Holmes asked.
“My solicitor told me recently of a client who had bequeathed his entire estate to his favourite greyhound. The animal was kept in the very highest style for the rest of his days. I want nothing but the best for my darling and this is the most sensible way of assuring that,” Mrs Peabody said quite seriously.
“And if the animal predeceases you?”
“Then the money will pass directly to the charity. I have made quite sure of the details.”
“I see. And you believe your cat has been abducted precisely because he has become your heir?” Holmes asked the question with apparently sincerity, but I had to cover my mouth with my hand to hide my smile, for the situation was quite ludicrous. I was astounded that any lawyer worth his salt would even suggest such a scheme, and even doubted the legality of leaving an apparently large sum of money to a pet.
Mrs Peabody nodded. “Of course! It is the only explanation. Whoever has taken him intends to hold him to ransom. You must find him for me, Mr Holmes!”
“Ransom? Ah, then you have had a demand for money in exchange for his safety. I should like to see it.” Holmes flicked out a hand expectantly, but the lady produced no letter. Instead she looked a little uncomfortable, avoiding his gaze and tapping her fingers upon the arm of her chair.
Cressida spoke in answer to her cousin’s quizzical frown. “There has been no ransom letter.”
“No ransom…? Mrs Peabody,” said Holmes, making what appeared to be a valiant attempt to curb the irritation which was evidently welling up within him, “upon what evidence do you base this theory of abduction if there has been no demand? As far as I can ascertain, it is quite likely that the animal has walked from the house of his own accord!”
“That, Mr Holmes, is quite impossible,” the widow replied, glaring at him.
My friend sighed sharply. “Why?” he asked.
Mrs Peabody lay back in her chair and tapped the woman sitting beside her on the shoulder. “Jane, do show him Barnabus Aloysius’s room. I need to rest – all this questioning has quite exhausted me.”
Jane rose smoothly, brushing down her skirts. “If you will follow me, Mr Holmes?” Her voice was soft, and as nondescript as her appearance. She moved as though gliding across the floor, and I received the overwhelming impression of a woman who had spent much of her life trying to be invisible.
“Watson,” Holmes said, beckoning me to accompany him. Cressida would have come too, but saw that she could not leave Mrs Peabody alone and reluctantly remained in her seat. Her resentment at being left out of such a crucial part of the investigation was almost tangible, and I felt her sharp eyes upon me as I left the room.
“You are Mrs Peabody’s companion, Miss -?” I asked as the quiet Jane led us down a dark corridor. Ahead a door stood ajar and I could hear a female voice humming. The clatter of crockery marked the room beyond out as the kitchen, and my assumption was further reinforced by the delicious scents wafting from within which caused my nostrils to twitch. At the end of the passage sunlight fell through a small stained glass panel in another door which must lead to the garden – bright colours dropped like jewels upon the rush matting which covered the floor, the only cheerful sight since we had entered this rather joyless house.
“Grey, sir, and I am indeed,” Jane replied. She ventured no further information, but opened a third door, revealing a small chamber which held a piano, a stool and little else. A smell pervaded the room, and though it was less than pleasant I was sure I recognised it. When I caught sight of the wicker basket, lined with cushioned velvet, which sat upon the closed lid of the piano, I realised what it was – the room smelled overwhelmingly of cat. “This is Barnabus Aloysius’s room.”
“Does the animal spend all its time in here?” Holmes enquired, reaching into his coat and withdrawing the magnifying glass he always carried with him.
Miss Grey shook her head. “Only at night, or when Mrs Peabody is out. She cannot have him in the bedroom because he will not settle – the only place he will sleep is on top of the piano.”
“Could the cat have escaped of its own accord?” I asked. The basket was covered with long, white strands, some of which Holmes removed with a pair of tweezers and stowed away in an envelope, no doubt for later analysis, but I could see few over the carpet.
“Never. Barnabus Aloysius is an elderly cat, and as Mrs Peabody will insist upon feeding him sweets, also an extremely fat one. He is taken everywhere in his basket, and only ever makes an attempt to leave it when his food is served.”
I bit back my immediate desire to remark that the cat sounded remarkably like Holmes’s brother Mycroft and looked around the room instead. There was little to see. It did not appear to have been cleaned recently, and I could see dust motes dancing in the light which trickled through the grimy windowpane. For all her apparent wealth, Mrs Peabody’s domestic arrangements left much to be desired. I tried tapping one of the piano keys, and discovered it to be out of tune.
“Do you have charge of the animal’s care, Miss Grey?” said Holmes, turning his attention to the floor. The companion watched impassively as he stretched out upon hands and knees, his glass barely an inch from its surface, like some great black-carapaced insect.
“I do not,” she said. “Mrs Hanway, the cook and housekeeper, deals with him. I have my duties with Mrs Peabody.”
“I see.” Holmes was silent for some minutes as he made his examination of the floor. The room was barely large enough for the three of us and the piano – Miss Grey had remained in the doorway and I found myself perching upon the stool to make way for Holmes and his lens, lifting my feet out of his path. He eventually fetched up almost at Miss Grey’s skirts, and sat back upon his heels. “Is the door locked at night?”
“It was not considered necessary. The cat could not walk away, and the entire house is secured at eight o’clock every evening. I lock all the exterior doors myself.”
“Including the one at the end of the hall?”
“Especially that one.”
“Of course, that door would be the only possible escape route for a would-be catnapper, would it not?” Holmes gave one of his swift smiles. “I take it that there was nothing amiss on Tuesday morning when you came down to breakfast?”
“Nothing,” said Miss Grey. “The garden door was still bolted on the inside as I had left it. We summoned the police at Mrs Peabody’s insistence but they examined the ground in vain.”
“So Barnabus Aloysius vanished into thin air. A somewhat unlikely occurrence,” my friend muttered. He climbed to his feet, brushing off his trousers. A speck of dirt appeared to cling stubbornly to the fabric and I offered him my handkerchief which he used to dust his knees before pocketing both it and his lens. “I should like to speak to the housekeeper,” he announced.
“Of course.” Miss Grey stood aside to allow us to leave the room and closed the door behind us. As she did I caught sight of her hand on the doorknob – the skin was mottled red and white with a nasty (and no doubt painful) rash. My medical instincts coming to the fore I immediately took her wrist in a gentle hold for a closer examination, only for her to draw it away.
“You have hurt yourself, Miss Grey,” I said, concerned, for the area was somewhat inflamed.
“It is nothing,” she responded calmly. “A slight accident.”
“I am a doctor, ma’am, and I do not agree. You should have it attended to at once. How did you come by it?”
She met my gaze with a rather unnervingly direct stare, a surprise after her refusal to look in my direction in the presence of Mrs Peabody. “I was doing some work in the garden a few days ago and encountered a bed of nettles. That is all.”
“One would hope that you also discovered a ready supply of dock leaves,” Holmes remarked with – in my view – misplaced jocularity.
Miss Grey turned her gaze upon him. He merely raised an eyebrow in response. “I did, thank you,” she said. “Mrs Hanway is in the kitchen, if you will come.”
“That was uncalled for, Holmes,” I hissed to my friend as he moved to follow.
He shook his head and briefly touched my shoulder. “Leave it, Watson,” he murmured, before we were ushered into the presence of Mrs Hanway and I was forcibly reminded that it been several hours since luncheon.
TBC
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Date: 2009-05-10 04:26 pm (UTC)i'm really enjoying this - nice to have a longer read and watch characters breathe a little and come to life:))
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Date: 2009-05-10 05:03 pm (UTC)I've been wanting to write another longer fic for ages, but the muse didn't want to cooperate until now.
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Date: 2009-05-10 04:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-10 05:04 pm (UTC)