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charleygirlTitle: The Inheritance of Barnabus Aloysius Peabody 5/6
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 4477
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Inspector Lestrade
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: The culprit is revealed...
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four
THE INHERITANCE OF BARNABUS ALOYSIUS PEABODY
CHAPTER FIVE
Holmes dropped me off at my surgery, and then retained the cab to go about some business of his own, promising faithfully that he would return a little before six. I did not relish the prospect of being left to deal with the person who services he had engaged without him being present.
In his absence, I took the opportunity to make my way through the pile of papers which had grown to mountainous proportions on my desk. I worked diligently through the day, stopping only for a brief luncheon and to make an emergency call two streets away, and by the time the clock struck a quarter-to I was close to seeing my blotter once more.
Holmes was as good as his word, and strode into my consulting room at ten minutes to the hour, throwing his hat and stick down unceremoniously upon the couch. After greeting me he said nothing, preferring instead to stand by the window and take advantage of the excellent view it provided of the street outside. I waited, and then, as the minute hand ticked closer to six, started from my chair.
“I will leave you to your appointment, then.”
“No!” Holmes whirled away from the window, flinging out a hand to stay my departure. “Don’t move, Watson. Your continued presence will be invaluable to me.”
“In that case, will you not enlighten me as to your plan?” I asked, resuming my seat.
After glancing through the window once more he let the net curtain fall, and came to perch upon the edge of my desk, searching his pockets for his cigarette case. He ignored my disapproving murmur at his lighting one in my consulting room and touched a match to the end, inhaling the resulting smoke gratefully.
“I plan,” he said, “to catch the person responsible for abducting Barnabus Aloysius; the person responsible for attempting to cheat Mrs Peabody’s heirs out of her estate.”
“But Mrs Peabody has no heirs! She said herself that she wants nothing to do with her sister’s children,” I pointed out.
“The cat is the heir, Watson. Nonsensical though the notion is, Mrs Peabody acted quite legally. I wired Cressida yesterday for information, and she tells me that the instructions regarding the future care of Barnabus Aloysius were drawn up, but as a codicil to the original will,” Holmes said, glancing at the clock. “She witnessed the alteration at Mrs Peabody’s request. However, that amendment has – either by accident or design – parted company with the document itself.”
“The surely the solicitor must be involved.”
“Precisely. You observed, of course, that he told his uncle he had come by a recent scar due to a fencing accident. We know from Mrs Hanway the housekeeper that he was attacked by the belligerent feline.”
I frowned. From the simple theft of a cat the case had become considerably more complicated. “But why would he do such a thing? He could hardly seek to benefit himself – Mrs Peabody barely knows him.”
“Oh, he was merely the accomplice. The real culprit is someone very close to the widow, someone who is in her confidence and knew precisely which changes she intended to make to her will.” Holmes leapt up and crossed to the window once more. “This person has been waiting patiently to make their move, and evidently had some hopes of their scheme coming to fruition soon, hence the agency having their name on its books. I took the liberty of using your address when making this appointment because I desired to conceal my identity. Had they known it was I who wished to engage their services, they would not be about to ring your front doorbell.”
“But - ” I began. He held up a hand.
“Do be a hospitable fellow and let them in,” he said as the bell pealed through the house.
I rose to do as I was bade, having sent the maid home early in anticipation of Holmes preferring the forthcoming interview to be a private one. As I opened the door to my surprise I found myself coming face to face not with an unknown woman sent from a West End agency, but someone who rang dim bells of recognition in the back of my mind.
It took me a few seconds to realise it, but standing on my doorstep was Miss Jane Grey.
***
She looked momentarily startled at the sight of me, but recovered herself swiftly, her impassive mask sliding neatly back into place.
“I do beg your pardon. I must have mistaken the house,” she said, and began to turn. Before she could walk away, Holmes, who had evidently slipped like lightning down the stairs behind me and emerged from the area below, effectively cutting off her escape. Absently I noticed that the potted bay tree which stood outside the building two doors away had moved to obscure my professional nameplate. He had thought of everything.
“It would be most discourteous of you to leave so soon, Miss Grey,” he said, “especially before I have had a chance to assess your suitability as a companion.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You have lured me here under false pretences, Mr Holmes.”
“A little deception, but no worse than those in which you have indulged over the years,” Holmes countered. He extended a hand, indicating that she should precede him into the house. “Shall we? I do so dislike conducting business in the street.”
Seeing that she was outnumbered and there was no policeman within call, Miss Grey inclined her head and picked up her skirts, gliding past me into the hall. I stared after her for a moment in amazement.
“Holmes, do you mean that Miss Grey is the one who abducted Barnabus Aloysius?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” he said, flicking the end of his cigarette into the bay tree’s pot. “She is the only person with the motive and opportunity. Miss Grey, in addition to her outward role as a professional ladies’ companion, is also an accomplished confidence trickster dedicated to relieving wealthy elderly ladies of their fortunes.”
***
I could not believe it.
When we returned to the consulting room, Miss Grey was sitting in the chair before my desk which I reserved for patients, her gloved hands folded primly in her lap. In truth, she did not look like a woman capable of committing wholesale fraud and deception, but I could not deny that there was something unsettling about her calm demeanour.
I stood to one side, leaving my leather chair for Holmes, but instead he chose to pace the room, lighting up another cigarette. Miss Grey watched him with a flicker of distaste, and I tactfully opened a window.
“Now, Miss Grey,” Holmes said, pausing and turning abruptly to face her, “Or shall I call you Magdalena Moffett? Grace Valance? Emilia Courtney? Do please choose which alias you would prefer me to use when addressing you.”
The lady regarded him with disdain. “I have nothing to say to you, Mr Holmes. If you believe me to have committed some crime, then let us summon the police.”
“Oh, we shall do so in due course, never fear. Where is the cat?”
“You have no proof of anything.”
“Really? Well, let us see if I can piece a few facts together.” Holmes took a seat once more on the edge of the desk and gestured to me to sit down as well. He took a long draw from his cigarette and exhaled slowly before continuing. Miss Grey waved the smoke away contemptuously. “Some years ago, you were companion to Lady Cassandra Clooney, taken on with excellent references at the recommendation of Fry’s Agency in Kensington. You remained with Lady Clooney for nearly five years, during which you gained her every confidence and were bequeathed a substantial amount in the old lady’s will. You had not expected the legacy, but when it came it sparked an idea in your cunning mind: if one wealthy widow had left you a considerable amount of money, why should others not do the same thing? It was then that your criminal career was born. Over the next ten years you persuaded no less than five more vulnerable women to remember you with a sizeable bequest.”
“Very interesting,” Miss Grey said, sounding bored. “Did you summon me here to tell me fairy stories?”
Holmes ignored her. “I had been keeping a record of such legacies,” he told me, as though the lady had not been in the room. “Lestrade came to me in the winter of ’89 after the family of one widow – a Mrs Amelia Bampton - suspected foul play. Her death had come far sooner than expected – she was in weak health, but her doctors had given no cause for alarm. She had even engaged a companion a few weeks before, a Miss Magdalena Moffett. Miss Moffett had left the house by the time I became involved, and we could find no evidence of any wrongdoing. The deceased had indeed perished from natural causes, and the will was quite watertight. It had been altered just a week before the unfortunate lady’s death, in favour of the woman who had been, as she put it, ‘her comfort through her final days’.”
“Did you find this person?” I asked. Though I recalled something of the case, I had been working on a locum basis at Charing Cross hospital at the time and been too busy to assist.
“Alas, no. She had covered her tracks well and vanished without trace. The curious thing is that none of Mrs Bampton’s family could describe this woman, being only able to recall vague details of her hair or clothing. The same was true of the companion engaged by the other widows – no one had paid her much attention because she was so quiet and unassuming.” Holmes glanced at the woman sitting to his right and added, “I would like you to do something for me, Watson: cover your eyes and then describe Miss Grey to me.”
Bemused, I did as he requested. “Well, the lady is small of stature, has brown hair, wears a blue dress and has a dove grey shawl.”
“Nothing else? Do think carefully, my dear fellow.”
I did, concentrating and trying to conjure a picture of Miss Grey in my mind’s eye. Though I could see her, a female figure in a plain frock, sitting across the desk from me, my mind stubbornly refused to fill in any of the blanks concerning her height, eye colour or distinctive facial characteristics. I said as much to Holmes, and he nodded.
“The relatives of her victims had the same difficulty. Though they could recall nothing remarkable about the woman who preyed upon their vulnerable aunts and godmothers, the very fact of her lack of distinguishing features was in itself distinctive. She had worked very hard to make herself as unobtrusive as possible, as we discovered when we visited Mrs Peabody. I would wager that when we first entered the parlour you had no idea that we were not alone with the widow.”
“That is true, I admit. But I am sure that there are thousands of unremarkable women in London, Holmes, many of them working as paid companions. How can you lay the blame for all of this at the door of just one?”
Holmes smiled slightly. “You think that there may be an organisation, working their way through the wealthy old ladies of the metropolis? An entertaining theory, if an erroneous one.” He held up a hand as I opened my mouth to protest at the inappropriateness of his making light of the situation. “I will tell you how I can lay at least one more count of deception at the feet of Miss Jane Grey, Watson. She has taken care to cover the evidence today, but I am sure you will recall the rash you cursorily examined upon her hand on Saturday. Nettle rash, I believe was the diagnosis.”
“As far as I could tell, yes. She said that she had been gardening,” I said.
“You saw that garden as well as I – no one had touched it in some considerable time. As a physician, would you agree that upon first glance one rash looks very much like another, whatever the cause of irritation?”
“Well, without a more thorough examination, yes, that is true. Miss Grey’s skin was inflamed very much in the manner of contact with stinging nettles, though I did not have a chance to check for the characteristic white blistering.”
“If you had, you would have found none, for there are no nettles in Mrs Peabody’s garden. Do you remember that Mrs Hanway told us Miss Grey would not touch Barnabus Aloysius because she ‘came out in red lumps’? The lady also took great care not to enter the room with us when I examined the cat’s basket. However, she had been in the room at some point for there were long white hairs adhering to the hem of her dress. Though Mrs Peabody may be lax about the condition of her garden the floors of her house are immaculate – there is nowhere Miss Grey could have picked up those hairs but in the music room. As for the rash, she had not been touching nettles – the ‘red lumps’ upon her hand were from contact with the missing animal.”
“Good God!” I exclaimed.
“Furthermore, when I checked my files I found that Mrs Bampton also had a favourite pet which her family mentioned the companion as carefully avoiding. When I considered that fact in addition to all the others I concluded Miss Jane Grey and Miss Magdalena Moffett were indeed the same person,” Holmes declared. He turned to our ‘guest’. “Well, madam? What do you say to that?”
This time Miss Grey said nothing. She kept her eyes fixed firmly upon a point above Holmes’s left shoulder, her expression studiously impassive.
I was at a loss to know how to proceed, for though Holmes’s theories made sense, we had no more than circumstantial evidence and the lady herself showed no intention of making it easy for us by confessing to her alleged crimes. By the time the clock struck a quarter-past six I was wondering whether I should venture to the kitchen to make some tea. Before I could suggest it, however, there was another ring on the front doorbell. I looked at Holmes, who was watching Miss Grey very much in the manner in which a cat observes a mouse, and sighed, heaving myself from my chair for the second time.
“Are you expecting someone, Mr Holmes?” I heard her ask as I left the room.
There was a slight pause, and then Holmes replied, “Oh, yes. Your accomplice.”
When I opened the door a thin, slightly stooped man in his late thirties stood there, hat in hand. His clothes were those of a businessman and he had brushed his pale blond hair across his forehead in an attempt to hide the impressive scar there. The sheaf of legal papers under his arm confirmed that Mr Magnus Clatworthy stood upon my stoop.
“Oh, good afternoon, sir!” he exclaimed, raising his hat and fumbling through his coat pockets for a card, which he presented to me. “Clatworthy is my name - I was under the impression that you required a solicitor.”
“That is perfectly true,” I lied, holding the door wide to allow him into the hall. “Do come this way, Mr Clatworthy.”
He followed me happily to the consulting room, talking all the while, and I could not help but feel surprise that a man so apparently guileless could possibly be a deliberate accessory to fraud and theft. As he stepped through the doorway, however, he stopped short. Holmes had risen from the desk and stood at Miss Grey’s shoulder, while she regarded the lawyer with anger, the first real emotion she had shown since being confronted with her actions. In a few short moments her mask had been utterly torn away, revealing the obviously bitter woman beneath.
“Magnus, you idiot!”
“Emilia!” Clatworthy cried, nearly dropping his papers. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“I could say the same about you!” she hissed. “Have you no perception? I told you that the widow had set a detective on our trail!”
“It seems that you have both been remiss in this instance,” said Holmes, bringing forward another chair and pointing to it. “Do sit down, Mr Clatworthy. Evidently the threat of Barnabus Aloysius Peabody to your schemes has made you careless. Had you been so sure of your inheritance, Miss Grey, you would have felt no need to place your real name upon the books of Fry’s Agency once more and thus enable me to trace your activities.”
“What is he talking about, Emilia? Who is he?” Clatworthy asked, doing as he was told as the expression upon my friend’s face would brook no disobedience.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am surprised your uncle did not mention my visit to him this morning when he gave you my note. Yes, Mr Clatworthy, the game is up,” Holmes added as the solicitor’s long, pale face dawned with recognition. “I am aware of your part in this affair, of how you made the alterations to Mrs Peabody’s will upon her request, and then contrived to lose them so that the cat would not benefit. Having ensured that the money would go to the trust established in Miss Grey’s real name you decided to be rid of the animal, presumably to stop Mrs Peabody making further changes in its favour. There was also, I would imagine, an element of revenge for the nasty wound its claws inflicted upon you.”
Clatworthy blinked in astonishment. He gaped at Miss Grey. “How does he know all this?”
Her hand clenched into fists in her lap, and she answered through clenched teeth. “He knows everything.”
“Everything? Even about Lady Clooney and Mrs - ”
“Magnus!” Miss Grey’s voice was near to a howl as she uttered his name. “Say nothing more, you fool!”
Holmes stood by the window, folding his arms across his chest. He indicated that I should shut the door and remain in front of it. “Thank you, Mr Clatworthy. I have no idea how the two of you met, or your true relationship, but it is quite clear that you have been preying upon vulnerable widows in tandem for some time. Mrs Peabody was merely the latest. Presumably you had either spent the money you fraudulently accumulated or had become greedy for more when one of the agencies to which you subscribe contacted you regarding a possible new situation. Miss Grey then proceeded to use her formidable skills as an actress to entrench herself in Mrs Peabody’s household in preparation to persuading the lady to bequeath her a sum in her will. It is no coincidence that the changes made to the document were recent ones – no doubt you even fabricated the letter purporting to come from Mrs Peabody’s nephew in order to reinforce her determination not to leave anything to her relatives.”
“You cannot prove that,” said Clatworthy, to Miss Grey’s evident distress. She slapped him hard on the arm, and he winced. “Mrs Peabody’s sister had two children.”
“Both of whom perished when the ship aboard which they were travelling from India sank with all hands four years ago,” said Holmes, to the solicitor’s dismay. “Unfortunately, you reckoned without the lady’s devotion to her other companion, the belligerent Barnabus Aloysius. During a conversation upon the subject of legacies, you, Mr Clatworthy, had the misfortune of mentioning Lord Amersham’s greyhound. Mrs Peabody decided that her cat should be the only beneficiary of her will and would not be swayed – you were faced with the prospect of your plans falling about your ears and so, in addition to forging the necessary legal amendments, one of you decided to steal Barnabus Aloysius.”
He turned to Miss Grey directly. “As for how you came to remove the animal, it was simplicity itself since of course you have charge of the house keys. After locking up for the night you went to the music room with a large basket. The cat of course would allow only Mrs Hanway to touch him and so you resorted to chloroform, picking up that unpleasant rash from the contact as you administered it. I discovered the remains of the cotton wool pad you doused clinging to my trousers when I completed my examination of the floor on Saturday. The animal now rendered unconscious you placed him in the basket, unlocked the back door and stole down the path under cover of darkness to where Mr Clatworthy was waiting. Oh, yes, we have a witness who saw you,” he added when she looked surprised. The colour drained from her face. “You returned to the house, fastened the door behind you and went to bed as though nothing untoward had occurred.”
“Of course!” I said, “You knew that someone inside the house must have been the culprit, as there were no scratches around the lock to indicate that there had been a break in.”
“Bravo, Watson!” Holmes cried, saluting me in delight. “Either someone within the house had passed the key to a confederate, or had perpetrated the theft themselves. When we were told of the small figure leaving the house at night with a basket over their arm, there was no other suspect in my mind: it must be Miss Jane Grey, for Mrs Hanway and the maid Sukey are both of a rather more generous stature. All that remained was for me to determine the motive behind the theft.”
“Which you did yesterday?”
He nodded. “I checked my files, recalling the Bampton case of 1889, and found several points of interest. I therefore made my way through the agencies of the West End in search of this unremarkable female who had been companion to so many. There are few unusual characteristics about Miss Grey – a boon in her chosen profession, and one of which she has taken the utmost advantage – but when I stood a little to the side of her I had noticed a distinctive yellow fleck to her left eye, which is usually concealed behind her spectacles. This would have remained invisible to the relatives of Mrs Bampton, who only saw her in passing, but I surmised that when visiting employment agencies Miss Grey might let her disguise drop a little and leave the glasses she did not need at home, as indeed she has done today.” I realised that I had not noticed that Miss Grey was not wearing her pince-nez – the fleck in her eye was not immediately obvious, but visible without the lenses, and most unusual. Holmes continued, “I was right, for when I described this feature to the head of Fry’s Agency the lady was able to identify her for me, albeit not as Jane Grey, but as a Miss Emilia Courtney, a most capable woman who had been registered with them for some years. According to Miss Fry, Miss Courtney was wishing to leave her current employer and therefore available to accept any offered situation immediately. Presently engaged by a widow in the suburbs, she had much experience, particularly with ladies who had recently lost their husbands.”
“And so you knew you had the right person.” I shook my head. “Masterful, Holmes.”
“Thank you, Watson.” Holmes lifted the net curtain to peer through the window again, and tapped the glass three times. Confused, I frowned, opening my mouth to ask him what he was doing. Before I could speak I was cut across by a wordless cry of rage and a shout from Magnus Clatworthy,
“Emilia! Emilia, don’t!”
Seeing Holmes momentarily apparently off-guard, Miss Grey had taken the opportunity to launch herself at him, fingers twisted into claws and nails directed at his eyes. Though there was a considerable discrepancy in height, she had the advantage of surprise, her anger giving her remarkable strength, and she managed to force him up against the wall behind. He twisted, catching hold of her wrists, but not before she had been able to lash out and scratch the side of his face. I grabbed her from behind, pushing her arms to her sides, but she struggled like a demon, and it was not until Clatworthy recovered from his apparent paralysis and came to take her from me that she calmed down. A cold fury seized her, and as soon as her hands were free she brought one up to connect sharply with his cheek. He backed away, eyes wide like a dog that has just been kicked.
“This is all your fault!” she screamed at him. “If you hadn’t mentioned that wretched greyhound - !”
I passed a handkerchief to Holmes, who took is gratefully, pressing it to his scraped skin. “What should we do now? Contact the police?”
“That is already in hand,” he replied, and, as if on cue, a hammering started upon my front door. “Do be a good fellow and let them in.”
***
Ten minutes later, our old friend Inspector Lestrade was escorting both a furious Miss Grey and a downcast Mr Clatworthy from my consulting room in the company of two burly constables.
“Well, I never thought I’d see the Bampton case concluded,” Lestrade said, shaking his head. “Who would have thought we’d get them over the theft of a Persian cat?”
Holmes smiled slightly, and then winced as I cleaned the scratches on his face with antiseptic. “Who indeed? It is often the light that falls in the strangest places which makes the most beautiful patterns.”
The inspector glanced at me and rolled his eyes. I hid my amusement behind my hand. “If you say so, Mr Holmes. We’ll be getting along then. Oh, by the way,” he added before he turned towards the door, “is the animal recovered?”
Holmes and I looked at each other. With all that had happened, the actual whereabouts of Barnabus Aloysius had completely slipped my mind. My friend directed a piercing gaze at the thief. “Miss Grey?”
Her face, no longer bland and impassive, twisted into a sneer. “Drowned in a bucket. That’s all the bloated thing was good for. Whoever will the widow leave her money to now?”
“Come on, let’s be having you,” said Lestrade, opening the door to allow the lady and her escort to precede him from the room. He touched his hat. “Mr Holmes, Doctor.”
When they had gone, I allowed myself to sink into the chair before my desk. We had solved the mystery, but however were we to explain the fate of her beloved cat to Mrs Peabody?
To be concluded…
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 4477
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Inspector Lestrade
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: The culprit is revealed...
THE INHERITANCE OF BARNABUS ALOYSIUS PEABODY
CHAPTER FIVE
Holmes dropped me off at my surgery, and then retained the cab to go about some business of his own, promising faithfully that he would return a little before six. I did not relish the prospect of being left to deal with the person who services he had engaged without him being present.
In his absence, I took the opportunity to make my way through the pile of papers which had grown to mountainous proportions on my desk. I worked diligently through the day, stopping only for a brief luncheon and to make an emergency call two streets away, and by the time the clock struck a quarter-to I was close to seeing my blotter once more.
Holmes was as good as his word, and strode into my consulting room at ten minutes to the hour, throwing his hat and stick down unceremoniously upon the couch. After greeting me he said nothing, preferring instead to stand by the window and take advantage of the excellent view it provided of the street outside. I waited, and then, as the minute hand ticked closer to six, started from my chair.
“I will leave you to your appointment, then.”
“No!” Holmes whirled away from the window, flinging out a hand to stay my departure. “Don’t move, Watson. Your continued presence will be invaluable to me.”
“In that case, will you not enlighten me as to your plan?” I asked, resuming my seat.
After glancing through the window once more he let the net curtain fall, and came to perch upon the edge of my desk, searching his pockets for his cigarette case. He ignored my disapproving murmur at his lighting one in my consulting room and touched a match to the end, inhaling the resulting smoke gratefully.
“I plan,” he said, “to catch the person responsible for abducting Barnabus Aloysius; the person responsible for attempting to cheat Mrs Peabody’s heirs out of her estate.”
“But Mrs Peabody has no heirs! She said herself that she wants nothing to do with her sister’s children,” I pointed out.
“The cat is the heir, Watson. Nonsensical though the notion is, Mrs Peabody acted quite legally. I wired Cressida yesterday for information, and she tells me that the instructions regarding the future care of Barnabus Aloysius were drawn up, but as a codicil to the original will,” Holmes said, glancing at the clock. “She witnessed the alteration at Mrs Peabody’s request. However, that amendment has – either by accident or design – parted company with the document itself.”
“The surely the solicitor must be involved.”
“Precisely. You observed, of course, that he told his uncle he had come by a recent scar due to a fencing accident. We know from Mrs Hanway the housekeeper that he was attacked by the belligerent feline.”
I frowned. From the simple theft of a cat the case had become considerably more complicated. “But why would he do such a thing? He could hardly seek to benefit himself – Mrs Peabody barely knows him.”
“Oh, he was merely the accomplice. The real culprit is someone very close to the widow, someone who is in her confidence and knew precisely which changes she intended to make to her will.” Holmes leapt up and crossed to the window once more. “This person has been waiting patiently to make their move, and evidently had some hopes of their scheme coming to fruition soon, hence the agency having their name on its books. I took the liberty of using your address when making this appointment because I desired to conceal my identity. Had they known it was I who wished to engage their services, they would not be about to ring your front doorbell.”
“But - ” I began. He held up a hand.
“Do be a hospitable fellow and let them in,” he said as the bell pealed through the house.
I rose to do as I was bade, having sent the maid home early in anticipation of Holmes preferring the forthcoming interview to be a private one. As I opened the door to my surprise I found myself coming face to face not with an unknown woman sent from a West End agency, but someone who rang dim bells of recognition in the back of my mind.
It took me a few seconds to realise it, but standing on my doorstep was Miss Jane Grey.
***
She looked momentarily startled at the sight of me, but recovered herself swiftly, her impassive mask sliding neatly back into place.
“I do beg your pardon. I must have mistaken the house,” she said, and began to turn. Before she could walk away, Holmes, who had evidently slipped like lightning down the stairs behind me and emerged from the area below, effectively cutting off her escape. Absently I noticed that the potted bay tree which stood outside the building two doors away had moved to obscure my professional nameplate. He had thought of everything.
“It would be most discourteous of you to leave so soon, Miss Grey,” he said, “especially before I have had a chance to assess your suitability as a companion.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You have lured me here under false pretences, Mr Holmes.”
“A little deception, but no worse than those in which you have indulged over the years,” Holmes countered. He extended a hand, indicating that she should precede him into the house. “Shall we? I do so dislike conducting business in the street.”
Seeing that she was outnumbered and there was no policeman within call, Miss Grey inclined her head and picked up her skirts, gliding past me into the hall. I stared after her for a moment in amazement.
“Holmes, do you mean that Miss Grey is the one who abducted Barnabus Aloysius?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” he said, flicking the end of his cigarette into the bay tree’s pot. “She is the only person with the motive and opportunity. Miss Grey, in addition to her outward role as a professional ladies’ companion, is also an accomplished confidence trickster dedicated to relieving wealthy elderly ladies of their fortunes.”
***
I could not believe it.
When we returned to the consulting room, Miss Grey was sitting in the chair before my desk which I reserved for patients, her gloved hands folded primly in her lap. In truth, she did not look like a woman capable of committing wholesale fraud and deception, but I could not deny that there was something unsettling about her calm demeanour.
I stood to one side, leaving my leather chair for Holmes, but instead he chose to pace the room, lighting up another cigarette. Miss Grey watched him with a flicker of distaste, and I tactfully opened a window.
“Now, Miss Grey,” Holmes said, pausing and turning abruptly to face her, “Or shall I call you Magdalena Moffett? Grace Valance? Emilia Courtney? Do please choose which alias you would prefer me to use when addressing you.”
The lady regarded him with disdain. “I have nothing to say to you, Mr Holmes. If you believe me to have committed some crime, then let us summon the police.”
“Oh, we shall do so in due course, never fear. Where is the cat?”
“You have no proof of anything.”
“Really? Well, let us see if I can piece a few facts together.” Holmes took a seat once more on the edge of the desk and gestured to me to sit down as well. He took a long draw from his cigarette and exhaled slowly before continuing. Miss Grey waved the smoke away contemptuously. “Some years ago, you were companion to Lady Cassandra Clooney, taken on with excellent references at the recommendation of Fry’s Agency in Kensington. You remained with Lady Clooney for nearly five years, during which you gained her every confidence and were bequeathed a substantial amount in the old lady’s will. You had not expected the legacy, but when it came it sparked an idea in your cunning mind: if one wealthy widow had left you a considerable amount of money, why should others not do the same thing? It was then that your criminal career was born. Over the next ten years you persuaded no less than five more vulnerable women to remember you with a sizeable bequest.”
“Very interesting,” Miss Grey said, sounding bored. “Did you summon me here to tell me fairy stories?”
Holmes ignored her. “I had been keeping a record of such legacies,” he told me, as though the lady had not been in the room. “Lestrade came to me in the winter of ’89 after the family of one widow – a Mrs Amelia Bampton - suspected foul play. Her death had come far sooner than expected – she was in weak health, but her doctors had given no cause for alarm. She had even engaged a companion a few weeks before, a Miss Magdalena Moffett. Miss Moffett had left the house by the time I became involved, and we could find no evidence of any wrongdoing. The deceased had indeed perished from natural causes, and the will was quite watertight. It had been altered just a week before the unfortunate lady’s death, in favour of the woman who had been, as she put it, ‘her comfort through her final days’.”
“Did you find this person?” I asked. Though I recalled something of the case, I had been working on a locum basis at Charing Cross hospital at the time and been too busy to assist.
“Alas, no. She had covered her tracks well and vanished without trace. The curious thing is that none of Mrs Bampton’s family could describe this woman, being only able to recall vague details of her hair or clothing. The same was true of the companion engaged by the other widows – no one had paid her much attention because she was so quiet and unassuming.” Holmes glanced at the woman sitting to his right and added, “I would like you to do something for me, Watson: cover your eyes and then describe Miss Grey to me.”
Bemused, I did as he requested. “Well, the lady is small of stature, has brown hair, wears a blue dress and has a dove grey shawl.”
“Nothing else? Do think carefully, my dear fellow.”
I did, concentrating and trying to conjure a picture of Miss Grey in my mind’s eye. Though I could see her, a female figure in a plain frock, sitting across the desk from me, my mind stubbornly refused to fill in any of the blanks concerning her height, eye colour or distinctive facial characteristics. I said as much to Holmes, and he nodded.
“The relatives of her victims had the same difficulty. Though they could recall nothing remarkable about the woman who preyed upon their vulnerable aunts and godmothers, the very fact of her lack of distinguishing features was in itself distinctive. She had worked very hard to make herself as unobtrusive as possible, as we discovered when we visited Mrs Peabody. I would wager that when we first entered the parlour you had no idea that we were not alone with the widow.”
“That is true, I admit. But I am sure that there are thousands of unremarkable women in London, Holmes, many of them working as paid companions. How can you lay the blame for all of this at the door of just one?”
Holmes smiled slightly. “You think that there may be an organisation, working their way through the wealthy old ladies of the metropolis? An entertaining theory, if an erroneous one.” He held up a hand as I opened my mouth to protest at the inappropriateness of his making light of the situation. “I will tell you how I can lay at least one more count of deception at the feet of Miss Jane Grey, Watson. She has taken care to cover the evidence today, but I am sure you will recall the rash you cursorily examined upon her hand on Saturday. Nettle rash, I believe was the diagnosis.”
“As far as I could tell, yes. She said that she had been gardening,” I said.
“You saw that garden as well as I – no one had touched it in some considerable time. As a physician, would you agree that upon first glance one rash looks very much like another, whatever the cause of irritation?”
“Well, without a more thorough examination, yes, that is true. Miss Grey’s skin was inflamed very much in the manner of contact with stinging nettles, though I did not have a chance to check for the characteristic white blistering.”
“If you had, you would have found none, for there are no nettles in Mrs Peabody’s garden. Do you remember that Mrs Hanway told us Miss Grey would not touch Barnabus Aloysius because she ‘came out in red lumps’? The lady also took great care not to enter the room with us when I examined the cat’s basket. However, she had been in the room at some point for there were long white hairs adhering to the hem of her dress. Though Mrs Peabody may be lax about the condition of her garden the floors of her house are immaculate – there is nowhere Miss Grey could have picked up those hairs but in the music room. As for the rash, she had not been touching nettles – the ‘red lumps’ upon her hand were from contact with the missing animal.”
“Good God!” I exclaimed.
“Furthermore, when I checked my files I found that Mrs Bampton also had a favourite pet which her family mentioned the companion as carefully avoiding. When I considered that fact in addition to all the others I concluded Miss Jane Grey and Miss Magdalena Moffett were indeed the same person,” Holmes declared. He turned to our ‘guest’. “Well, madam? What do you say to that?”
This time Miss Grey said nothing. She kept her eyes fixed firmly upon a point above Holmes’s left shoulder, her expression studiously impassive.
I was at a loss to know how to proceed, for though Holmes’s theories made sense, we had no more than circumstantial evidence and the lady herself showed no intention of making it easy for us by confessing to her alleged crimes. By the time the clock struck a quarter-past six I was wondering whether I should venture to the kitchen to make some tea. Before I could suggest it, however, there was another ring on the front doorbell. I looked at Holmes, who was watching Miss Grey very much in the manner in which a cat observes a mouse, and sighed, heaving myself from my chair for the second time.
“Are you expecting someone, Mr Holmes?” I heard her ask as I left the room.
There was a slight pause, and then Holmes replied, “Oh, yes. Your accomplice.”
When I opened the door a thin, slightly stooped man in his late thirties stood there, hat in hand. His clothes were those of a businessman and he had brushed his pale blond hair across his forehead in an attempt to hide the impressive scar there. The sheaf of legal papers under his arm confirmed that Mr Magnus Clatworthy stood upon my stoop.
“Oh, good afternoon, sir!” he exclaimed, raising his hat and fumbling through his coat pockets for a card, which he presented to me. “Clatworthy is my name - I was under the impression that you required a solicitor.”
“That is perfectly true,” I lied, holding the door wide to allow him into the hall. “Do come this way, Mr Clatworthy.”
He followed me happily to the consulting room, talking all the while, and I could not help but feel surprise that a man so apparently guileless could possibly be a deliberate accessory to fraud and theft. As he stepped through the doorway, however, he stopped short. Holmes had risen from the desk and stood at Miss Grey’s shoulder, while she regarded the lawyer with anger, the first real emotion she had shown since being confronted with her actions. In a few short moments her mask had been utterly torn away, revealing the obviously bitter woman beneath.
“Magnus, you idiot!”
“Emilia!” Clatworthy cried, nearly dropping his papers. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“I could say the same about you!” she hissed. “Have you no perception? I told you that the widow had set a detective on our trail!”
“It seems that you have both been remiss in this instance,” said Holmes, bringing forward another chair and pointing to it. “Do sit down, Mr Clatworthy. Evidently the threat of Barnabus Aloysius Peabody to your schemes has made you careless. Had you been so sure of your inheritance, Miss Grey, you would have felt no need to place your real name upon the books of Fry’s Agency once more and thus enable me to trace your activities.”
“What is he talking about, Emilia? Who is he?” Clatworthy asked, doing as he was told as the expression upon my friend’s face would brook no disobedience.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am surprised your uncle did not mention my visit to him this morning when he gave you my note. Yes, Mr Clatworthy, the game is up,” Holmes added as the solicitor’s long, pale face dawned with recognition. “I am aware of your part in this affair, of how you made the alterations to Mrs Peabody’s will upon her request, and then contrived to lose them so that the cat would not benefit. Having ensured that the money would go to the trust established in Miss Grey’s real name you decided to be rid of the animal, presumably to stop Mrs Peabody making further changes in its favour. There was also, I would imagine, an element of revenge for the nasty wound its claws inflicted upon you.”
Clatworthy blinked in astonishment. He gaped at Miss Grey. “How does he know all this?”
Her hand clenched into fists in her lap, and she answered through clenched teeth. “He knows everything.”
“Everything? Even about Lady Clooney and Mrs - ”
“Magnus!” Miss Grey’s voice was near to a howl as she uttered his name. “Say nothing more, you fool!”
Holmes stood by the window, folding his arms across his chest. He indicated that I should shut the door and remain in front of it. “Thank you, Mr Clatworthy. I have no idea how the two of you met, or your true relationship, but it is quite clear that you have been preying upon vulnerable widows in tandem for some time. Mrs Peabody was merely the latest. Presumably you had either spent the money you fraudulently accumulated or had become greedy for more when one of the agencies to which you subscribe contacted you regarding a possible new situation. Miss Grey then proceeded to use her formidable skills as an actress to entrench herself in Mrs Peabody’s household in preparation to persuading the lady to bequeath her a sum in her will. It is no coincidence that the changes made to the document were recent ones – no doubt you even fabricated the letter purporting to come from Mrs Peabody’s nephew in order to reinforce her determination not to leave anything to her relatives.”
“You cannot prove that,” said Clatworthy, to Miss Grey’s evident distress. She slapped him hard on the arm, and he winced. “Mrs Peabody’s sister had two children.”
“Both of whom perished when the ship aboard which they were travelling from India sank with all hands four years ago,” said Holmes, to the solicitor’s dismay. “Unfortunately, you reckoned without the lady’s devotion to her other companion, the belligerent Barnabus Aloysius. During a conversation upon the subject of legacies, you, Mr Clatworthy, had the misfortune of mentioning Lord Amersham’s greyhound. Mrs Peabody decided that her cat should be the only beneficiary of her will and would not be swayed – you were faced with the prospect of your plans falling about your ears and so, in addition to forging the necessary legal amendments, one of you decided to steal Barnabus Aloysius.”
He turned to Miss Grey directly. “As for how you came to remove the animal, it was simplicity itself since of course you have charge of the house keys. After locking up for the night you went to the music room with a large basket. The cat of course would allow only Mrs Hanway to touch him and so you resorted to chloroform, picking up that unpleasant rash from the contact as you administered it. I discovered the remains of the cotton wool pad you doused clinging to my trousers when I completed my examination of the floor on Saturday. The animal now rendered unconscious you placed him in the basket, unlocked the back door and stole down the path under cover of darkness to where Mr Clatworthy was waiting. Oh, yes, we have a witness who saw you,” he added when she looked surprised. The colour drained from her face. “You returned to the house, fastened the door behind you and went to bed as though nothing untoward had occurred.”
“Of course!” I said, “You knew that someone inside the house must have been the culprit, as there were no scratches around the lock to indicate that there had been a break in.”
“Bravo, Watson!” Holmes cried, saluting me in delight. “Either someone within the house had passed the key to a confederate, or had perpetrated the theft themselves. When we were told of the small figure leaving the house at night with a basket over their arm, there was no other suspect in my mind: it must be Miss Jane Grey, for Mrs Hanway and the maid Sukey are both of a rather more generous stature. All that remained was for me to determine the motive behind the theft.”
“Which you did yesterday?”
He nodded. “I checked my files, recalling the Bampton case of 1889, and found several points of interest. I therefore made my way through the agencies of the West End in search of this unremarkable female who had been companion to so many. There are few unusual characteristics about Miss Grey – a boon in her chosen profession, and one of which she has taken the utmost advantage – but when I stood a little to the side of her I had noticed a distinctive yellow fleck to her left eye, which is usually concealed behind her spectacles. This would have remained invisible to the relatives of Mrs Bampton, who only saw her in passing, but I surmised that when visiting employment agencies Miss Grey might let her disguise drop a little and leave the glasses she did not need at home, as indeed she has done today.” I realised that I had not noticed that Miss Grey was not wearing her pince-nez – the fleck in her eye was not immediately obvious, but visible without the lenses, and most unusual. Holmes continued, “I was right, for when I described this feature to the head of Fry’s Agency the lady was able to identify her for me, albeit not as Jane Grey, but as a Miss Emilia Courtney, a most capable woman who had been registered with them for some years. According to Miss Fry, Miss Courtney was wishing to leave her current employer and therefore available to accept any offered situation immediately. Presently engaged by a widow in the suburbs, she had much experience, particularly with ladies who had recently lost their husbands.”
“And so you knew you had the right person.” I shook my head. “Masterful, Holmes.”
“Thank you, Watson.” Holmes lifted the net curtain to peer through the window again, and tapped the glass three times. Confused, I frowned, opening my mouth to ask him what he was doing. Before I could speak I was cut across by a wordless cry of rage and a shout from Magnus Clatworthy,
“Emilia! Emilia, don’t!”
Seeing Holmes momentarily apparently off-guard, Miss Grey had taken the opportunity to launch herself at him, fingers twisted into claws and nails directed at his eyes. Though there was a considerable discrepancy in height, she had the advantage of surprise, her anger giving her remarkable strength, and she managed to force him up against the wall behind. He twisted, catching hold of her wrists, but not before she had been able to lash out and scratch the side of his face. I grabbed her from behind, pushing her arms to her sides, but she struggled like a demon, and it was not until Clatworthy recovered from his apparent paralysis and came to take her from me that she calmed down. A cold fury seized her, and as soon as her hands were free she brought one up to connect sharply with his cheek. He backed away, eyes wide like a dog that has just been kicked.
“This is all your fault!” she screamed at him. “If you hadn’t mentioned that wretched greyhound - !”
I passed a handkerchief to Holmes, who took is gratefully, pressing it to his scraped skin. “What should we do now? Contact the police?”
“That is already in hand,” he replied, and, as if on cue, a hammering started upon my front door. “Do be a good fellow and let them in.”
***
Ten minutes later, our old friend Inspector Lestrade was escorting both a furious Miss Grey and a downcast Mr Clatworthy from my consulting room in the company of two burly constables.
“Well, I never thought I’d see the Bampton case concluded,” Lestrade said, shaking his head. “Who would have thought we’d get them over the theft of a Persian cat?”
Holmes smiled slightly, and then winced as I cleaned the scratches on his face with antiseptic. “Who indeed? It is often the light that falls in the strangest places which makes the most beautiful patterns.”
The inspector glanced at me and rolled his eyes. I hid my amusement behind my hand. “If you say so, Mr Holmes. We’ll be getting along then. Oh, by the way,” he added before he turned towards the door, “is the animal recovered?”
Holmes and I looked at each other. With all that had happened, the actual whereabouts of Barnabus Aloysius had completely slipped my mind. My friend directed a piercing gaze at the thief. “Miss Grey?”
Her face, no longer bland and impassive, twisted into a sneer. “Drowned in a bucket. That’s all the bloated thing was good for. Whoever will the widow leave her money to now?”
“Come on, let’s be having you,” said Lestrade, opening the door to allow the lady and her escort to precede him from the room. He touched his hat. “Mr Holmes, Doctor.”
When they had gone, I allowed myself to sink into the chair before my desk. We had solved the mystery, but however were we to explain the fate of her beloved cat to Mrs Peabody?
To be concluded…
