Sherlock Holmes and the Servants of Hell Page 4

  Holmes pulled a face. “She was never meant for children, that one.”

  I did not know whether he was talking about her temperament, or if he suspected that she might not be capable of bearing a child, but in the end it mattered little. His next sentence spun the conversation off into a completely different topic, anyway. “Furthermore, I suspect that the new Mrs Cotton had an affair with Laurence’s brother, Francis. Quite possibly only short-lived, especially given his attitude towards women, but nevertheless passionate. It is partly the reason she was so strident about engaging us in the search for Francis.”

  “Good Lord, really?” I spluttered. “But Laurence said that she couldn’t abide the man!”

  Holmes slowly nodded. “There is a fine line between love and hate, Watson. In all our time investigating crimes, many of which have revolved around both, you should have come to realise that. Nevertheless, I do not think for one moment Juliet Cotton hates Francis. If anything, the opposite is true. She adores the man beyond measure, Watson. It is the very absence of him that Laurence has picked up on – the hatred of that rather than the person – and she would give anything to be with the fellow again. It is a dangerous kind of obsession.”

  We had alighted from the cab, walked up the path to the house, and were about to knock on the door when it opened suddenly, revealing Laurence Cotton. Glancing across, I saw his wife moving away from the downstairs window, which I would discover – upon entering – belonged to the parlour. Just as Holmes had been eagerly awaiting them earlier, so too had she been watching for our arrival – ready to dispatch Laurence to greet us.

  “Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, please come in,” said the man, stepping out of the way so we could cross the threshold. There were rooms on the left and the right, a hallway stretching out in front of us, and a set of narrow stairs that, I presumed, led up to the second and third floors. A funnelling space which could easily carry sound, I thought as we divested ourselves of our coats and hats; little wonder the screams of Francis Cotton could be heard so easily throughout the house with acoustics like that. “Miss Williams and Cecil – Mr Barbery – are waiting in the –”

  “The attic room, Mr Cotton,” said Holmes. “If you would be so kind.”

  Again, there was method to this – as he wished to carry out an assessment of the room in which Francis had ‘vanished’ before speaking to those who had tried to aid him. Hearing their stories beforehand would only serve to cloud his judgment, to contaminate his thoughts. There had been enough contamination already, as we saw when we were escorted upstairs to the room, past the second level that contained the bedrooms.

  “Not even the Scotland Yard brigade themselves could have done a finer job of blundering about the place,” Holmes muttered with a weary sigh after Cotton flung the door wide, careful not to catch himself on the damaged frame. Standing just behind him, I cast my eyes around the room, which was indeed clear, apart from an empty packing box or two, Francis’ open case – which I noted had his initials on the side – and the candles Laurence had spoken of. There was also the small window he had told us about and I saw now what he meant; it could not have been more than a foot square, designed more for ventilation than anything – although judging from the state of the paintwork, it was probably stuck shut; more than likely the reason for the damp. The room was also dusty, and it was obvious even to me that Miss Williams and Mr Barbery’s forced entry and subsequent search had obliterated any traces of other footprints we might have found.

  Nevertheless, Holmes got down to examine the floorboards – scrutinising what evidence might be left with his magnifying glass. Then he began to examine the candles, touching the top of one, measuring the distance between another two – no doubt to try to establish where they had been positioned before their fall. I had seen him like this on many occasions, and described him as such – the most frenzied, I believe, being a time when he needed to find a secret compartment at a crime scene before the police returned to it. Was that how Francis might have exited? I wondered. Some sort of hidden compartment in the floor or walls, perhaps? A secret compartment, like the one a certain Mr Jonas Oldacre had hidden himself in during a previous affair? Holmes was running his fingers along the walls, frowning, which did nothing to dissuade me from my hypothesis.

  It would prove not to be the case, of course. There were no rooms on either side of this one, so no space in which to hide – although there was a smaller storage room opposite – and the window wall overlooked the side of the house. Even if Laurence’s brother had been some sort of carnival contortionist, he would still have had to negotiate the drop, and would no doubt have been seen by the returning Miss Williams and Mr Barbery, as they raced back to help.

  Holmes then began sniffing the air. I have so often commented on his keen sense of smell, indeed the man has written papers on the subject of both that and the use of other senses in detective work. But when he spoke again, even I could discern the scent he was talking about.

  “There is a faint smell of vanilla in this room,” he said finally to no-one in particular.

  And yes, there was. Faint, because whatever had caused it was long gone (and we would later rule out any sort of perfume, for Miss Williams was not one to partake of such a luxury). Faint, but lingering, as if to leave a trace of whatever had happened here behind. I certainly did not know what to make of it.

  Once all his explorations were concluded, and with an examination of the lock on the inside of the door on the way out – broken to gain entry – he told Laurence Cotton that he was ready to interview the witnesses, separately if that was at all possible, starting with Cecil Barbery.

  “We can use Father’s old study,” Laurence said. “For privacy.” After showing us where that was on the ground floor – a room full of books with numbers on their spines rather than titles, marking them as ledgers, and also containing a desk and two wooden chairs – the man went to fetch his neighbour.

  Holmes insisted I take one of the chairs, and I did not argue for I could see he was full of nervous energy and would not be able to sit still even if he took the spare seat. When Cecil Barbery entered the room, he had to bend so as not to catch his head on the top of the door frame. He had grey hair, but a young face, and his open-necked shirt and jacket strained to contain his chest and shoulders. Miss Williams had been quite correct to enlist him in the breaking down of the attic room door.

  When he shook my hand, I felt him squeeze it – as if testing my strength – but he stopped when he saw me wince. Holmes barely twitched at the man’s grip, however, and Barbery soon let go after a few moments of staring squarely into my friend’s eyes. When I came to start writing in my notebook, I had to flex my fingers a few times, still cramping from Barbery’s attentions, but I managed to catch up with the exchange fairly swiftly after that.

  “All this fuss,” growled Barbery, taking a seat and causing the wood to protest. “He’s just playin’ silly beggers, is little Frank.” I daresay everyone was little to Barbery, but he had known the brothers when they were just children and so still thought of them that way on some level. The use of an abbreviated form of Francis also gave the man we were looking for a much harder edge. “He’ll turn up when he’s good and ready, with a sly grin on his face and a woman in tow.”

  “So, it’s your evaluation that Francis Cotton is the mischievous sort,” said Holmes, standing with his back to us, hands clasped behind him.

  “Oh, aye. Never been anythin’ but. Black sheep of the family, that one,” grumbled Barbery. “Not like Laurence. Fine upstandin’ gentleman he is, just like his father. Always time for people.”

  “How did you come to know the family?” I asked.

  “Through Mr Cotton’s dealings with the Duke. He had business affairs with him and used to visit quite frequently, and we just got friendly. That was the kind of man he was. When I heard about his wife, and I had retirement myself coming up, I moved in nearby so I could keep an eye on him. Help out where I could.”

&nbs
p; “Most kind of you,” I said.

  “Aye, well, that’s just the sort of man I am.”

  Holmes spun around. “Please, if you would – the evening in question. When Miss Williams called upon you, from the beginning...”

  Barbery related what he could remember, which tallied with what Miss Williams had told Laurence: she’d banged on his front door for help, shouting something about an intruder and an attack – which is what it must have sounded like to her. He’d gone with the housekeeper and shouldered the door open, but they’d found no trace of Francis Cotton inside, in spite of all their ‘stomping around’ – as Holmes had called it – searching for him.

  “You heard no screaming?” asked Holmes when the man was finally finished with his account.

  Barbery thought about this for a little while. “I... No, I don’t recall any screamin’. But he will be when I get hold of him for all this trouble,” the large man promised. I was beginning to see that Francis Cotton was a person that not many people liked; unless, of course, you were of the female persuasion.

  That opinion was enforced when we talked to the housekeeper, Miss Williams herself. She was a lot younger than I thought she would be, with auburn hair and green eyes – that were also reddened and sore-looking from her tears.

  “Oh, please, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, if there’s anything you can do to help us find Francis... Mr Cotton, I mean...”

  “How long have you known the gentleman in question?” Holmes folded his arms, then slipped out his left hand to tap a finger against his lips.

  “Off and on, ten years or more, since I came into Mr Cotton’s – the late Mr Cotton’s – employ as a maid, sir.”

  “So, since you were nineteen, twenty?”

  The woman nodded.

  “And have you been in love with him all that time, or is that more of a recent development?” Holmes said suddenly, and Miss Williams looked at him as if she’d just been caught stealing something.

  “In love?” she replied. “I-I don’t under –”

  “Oh come now,” Holmes said, drawing closer and taking up a stance that would have intimidated the most hardened of criminals, let alone a young woman. “You’re not very good at concealing your feelings for him, Miss Williams. Francis, indeed!”

  “I am just concerned about his welfare, and that is all,” she argued, growing angry.

  Holmes batted her words away with a wave of his hand. “As you wish. You might also be concerned for your position in this household, though – especially if Mr and Mrs Cotton move in as they plan to.”

  I watched her as Holmes said these words and their true meaning was not lost on Miss Williams, I could see. Perhaps it was common knowledge about Juliet Cotton and her brother-in-law (common, that is, to all but her husband), or maybe she had noticed the agitated state Laurence’s wife had also been in since the man went missing and the steps she had insisted upon to find him – regardless of whether it involved her infidelity coming to light.

  Even I could see that Miss Williams’ days in this house were numbered, if Mrs Cotton had anything to do with it.

  “I intend to move on anyway, Mr Holmes – once the mystery of where... Mr Cotton is can be solved.” She said it like she was issuing a challenge to him, and I also had to wonder whether Miss Williams thought – or hoped – that when she moved on it would be with Francis Cotton by her side. The more I heard about the chap, the less likely it seemed, I had to admit.

  Once we were finished with the witnesses, Laurence escorted us to the parlour where Juliet Cotton was still waiting. “Well?” she demanded, rising from her chair as we stepped through the door. “What do you make of it all?”

  “It is difficult to say,” Holmes admitted.

  “You do not even have a theory?”

  “Oh, I have a theory, Mrs Cotton,” said Holmes. “I have several, in fact; but none that I wish to share at this moment in time.”

  “Mr Holmes,” said Laurence, looking from his wife to my friend. “Do you or do you not know what happened to my brother? I have seen – read – tales where you have solved cases in much less time than this! Tell us!”

  Holmes sighed. “Very well. I believe your brother to be deceased, Mr Cotton.”

  Mrs Cotton staggered sideways a little and I thought she was going to faint. Laurence immediately rushed over to the woman to steady her. “Mr Holmes, that is a cruel thing to say, even in jest.”

  “I assure you, I never make light of such matters,” Holmes told him. “Your brother is dead.”

  Not even I knew what Holmes was playing at, saying such a thing. “Holmes, how can you be sure that –” I began, but he held up a hand to silence me.

  “I would rather not say any more,” Holmes stated.

  “This is preposterous!” shouted Mrs Cotton, baring her teeth as her husband settled her back down on her seat. “How can you say such a thing? I will not have it! Laurence, would you escort these men out – immediately!”

  He looked unsure for a moment, then nodded; he was never going to refuse her. But Holmes was already backing out through the door, retrieving our coats and hats.

  “I am sorry to be the bearer of such news,” he said to Laurence Cotton as he followed. “Nevertheless, you wished to know.”

  “I think it would be best if you do not return,” said the man who had been so keen to hire us that morning. He looked back over his shoulder, through to his wife – who appeared on the verge of tears.

  I expected Holmes to argue with him, given the fact he had been just as eager to take on the case, but he simply nodded. It was as if, having come here and seen what he’d seen, talked with the witnesses, he had found out what he needed to know and could leave this place – if not the mystery itself – be.

  Breathing in the bitter early evening air, we hailed a cab and, once safely inside, I asked what my colleague had discovered.

  “Another person visited that room aside from Mr Barbery, Miss Williams and, of course, Mr Cotton himself,” said Holmes. “I do not know how they gained entry or exited again, but they were there.”

  “And you believe this person was responsible for the death of Francis Cotton?”

  Holmes held up a finger. “Now, I did not say that, Watson. But I do believe they were there to retrieve the murder weapon.”

  “The murder...” I was stunned into silence; I had absolutely no idea what Holmes was talking about.

  “Something Cotton took out of his bag, along with the candles he’d brought with him which – before they were disturbed – had been lit and arranged about him in a perfect square. A square that mirrored the shape of the object which was taken, that had been on the floor during the slaughter of Mr Cotton: I found markings in the dust at the back of the room which suggested it might have been box-shaped. Precise dimensions, three inches to a side. And solid, Watson.”

  “Something Cotton might have been struck with, you think?”

  “Blood had been spilled in that room, most definitely – a lot of blood – although it had also been cleaned up again, more efficiently than I have ever seen in my entire career. So well, I almost missed the tiny specks of it between the floorboards, in the cracks of the walls. And the distinctive smell of copper, underneath the vanilla.” Holmes paused and I thought he’d forgotten my original enquiry altogether, until he said, “But I cannot say for sure that it was the murder weapon that spilt the blood.”

  “Holmes, you’re not making any sense, man,” I told him. It was something he admitted himself with a cock of his head.

  “Yet that is what I saw, Watson. That is what I detected.” He sat back in the cab’s seat and held up his hand again, a signal that he would talk no more – and we rode the rest of the way home in silence.

  I wondered then if this was to be simply one of those mysteries which was destined never to be explained, not by Holmes nor anyone else, regardless of his best efforts. Indeed, if Holmes could not put his finger on what had occurred, what hope was there for anyone else? Moreover
, the authorities were unlikely to investigate a death – or murder, as Holmes insisted – the existence of which could not even be proved. Where was the body, for one thing?

  No, I felt sure that this was one story I would never, ever get to write up, let alone finish; my readers would think me mad. Indeed, in the months ahead, I would come to question my own sanity.

  And I would begin to wish the mystery had remained unresolved.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Further Disappearances

  THE HOLIDAY SEASON came and went, and I did my best to put the events of Lodovico Street from my mind.

  Holmes was his usual irritable self around this time of year, reflected in arguments with Mrs Hudson that would have put Scrooge to shame: about the decorations, the tree, Christmas dinner and such. It was not that Holmes hated Christmas, for he could understand the notion of religion well enough – and the comfort it gave people who had precious little the rest of the year. He had also, on occasion, spoken about a higher power – and once, at length about how something as wonderful but unnecessary as a rose gave us hope in such a divine being – although I know that he much preferred the evidence of his eyes to faith in things that could not be explained or proven (another reason why the case we had just investigated remained such a frustration – especially to him, which did little to help with his disposition).

  But he saw the benefit of a period in which folk were encouraged to be generally kinder to each other. In fact, had Holmes himself not been lenient with the thief Ryder after he had taken the Blue Carbuncle during a moment of madness and secreted it in that goose – my friend claiming then that to have him arrested would create a more hardened criminal later on; although I could see it was more than simple foresight. It was in keeping with the spirit of Christmas, whether Holmes believed in this or not.

  That adventure seemed a long time in the past. During the month of December 1895, Holmes’ mood swings grew increasingly worse, punctuated by long intervals where he would simply disappear again – vanish off the face of the Earth, as surely as Francis Cotton before him – only to return in some sort of stupor, or wounded, or both. I had no hope of tracing him on these occasions; he was just too proficient at avoiding being followed.