Sherlock Holmes and the Missing Shakespeare (3 page)

Chapter Three:

Unlikely bedfellows

“What was that, Holmes?” I demanded of my friend when Miss Harcourt had departed for Harcourt Hall.

“What was what, Watson?” Holmes returned the inquiry casually as he prepared his pipe.

“‘I have solved the mystery but I have not found a solution to your problem?’”

“Ah, that is indeed the case, Watson.” Holmes grabbed the tongs and took an ember from the fire to light his pipe. “I have solved the mystery of the manuscript, I am already aware of Mr. Miller’s role in it and where he might be located, but none of it helps Lady Harcourt.” He turned to me then, blowing out a large cloud of smoke. “Would you care to accompany me in my investigations, Doctor Watson? I assume you have time to spare in the next two days?”

“Uncanny, but you are right again, Holmes. I have no appointments; I have only rounds to make. My wife is away to visit her sister in Scotland, so I am completely at your disposal.”

“Excellent, Watson. I will see you at Waterloo Station at ten o’clock in the morning. If you visit old Mrs. Jacobson at the end of your round, you would only be five minutes away from the station.”

I decided not to question how Holmes knew my rounds, and I did not ask him why he reckoned I would be calling on Mrs. Jacobson the next morning as I had received no word of her being unwell. Instead, I just bade him farewell.

By the time I left the Baker Street residence, the rain had stopped and the streets were nearly empty, making for an easy walk home.

***

As I was having my morning tea, a footman arrived with a message.

Curious, I opened it at once to discover a request to visit Mrs. Jacobson that morning as she had been taken ill during the night. I shook my head, less over the news of Mrs. Robinson’s failing health, but more over Holmes’s seemingly supernatural ability to predict the future. I promised I would call on her and proceeded to do so, as on Holmes’s suggestion, at the end of my rounds. I then went on to Waterloo Station, where I found Holmes waiting impatiently on the platform, conversing with the conductor of the train to Dover.

“Honestly, Watson,” he exclaimed exasperatedly, “You are a full minute late. Do make haste and board before Mr. Evans here decides he will not wait a second longer.”

I did so instantly, recognizing that my good friend was in one of his moods, and was followed by Holmes into the compartment. He had not closed the door before the conductor blew his whistle and the train was set into motion.

“We are going to Harcourt Hall, I presume?” I inquired of Holmes, wishing to circumvent his ire.

“We are not, Watson,” Holmes said not-so-gently.

“Then might I inquire where we are going?”

“You may.”

I waited for a moment but received no answer, which I promptly pointed out to him.

“Oh, you were inquiring with the presupposition that an answer would also be forthcoming.”

Having confirmed that sentiment, I saw Holmes smile and recline into the seat, resting his elbows on the armrests and placing his fingertips together again, closing his eyes and not opening them again until the train had reached the village of Penstone Heath.

We alighted from the train there and Holmes proceeded rapidly from the station into the village. I marched quickly but found it hard to keep up with Holmes’s long strides.

We walked through the village without a stop and we turned onto a country lane without a word. After some minutes of steady walking, I saw the imposing figure of a country estate come into view. I assumed it was Harcourt Hall and our destination.

Almost a mile away from the estate, though, Holmes pointed to a side road that joined the lane there, cutting a gap between the willows that lined the lane. “That’s the road to Harcourt Hall,” Holmes proclaimed, although he continued along the lane to quite a different estate in front of us.

I blinked and missed a step. “Harcourt Hall? But I thought that was where we were headed.”

“No, we are going to call on their neighbor, the Marquis of Tach Saggart.”

“The Marquis of Tach Saggart?” I had not heard the name before.

“Yes, that is his estate, Clonmore House.” Holmes gave a chuckle of laughter. “The Marquis is a member of the Irish Peerage. Rather a delusional one, though. He is a descendant of Lord Fitzwilliam, one of the commanders of the army that was comprehensively thrashed by the O’Byrne clansmen at the battle of Glenmalure.”

He glanced back and, undoubtedly, correctly read the puzzled expression on my face. In his pleasant voice, he launched into a verse of a song he must have picked up on one of his forays into the Irish expatriate community in London. Holmes had the uncanny ability to retain the lyrics and melody of any song he’d ever heard.

“From Tach Saggart to Clonmore, there flows a stream of Saxon gore, and great is Rory Óg O’More at sending the loons to Hades. White is sick and Grey has fled, now for Black Fitzwilliam’s head, we’ll send it over dripping red to Liza and her ladies.”

He looked round at me again and smiled. “That battle did not go well for the present Englishmen and collaborators. Yet in true form, honorable titles were issued to the deceased commanders and then passed on to their descendants. The Marquis of Tach Saggart took pride in where his ancestor earned the title and named his house after the place.”

“It is a new house?” I asked, making a leap of logic.

“Indeed, Watson. It was built ten years ago. The family was extremely impoverished and moved to the Ohio River Valley, as many of their countrymen solved their hunger and monetary problems by joining the Royal Navy or the armies on the Peninsula or in India. The current marquis is the second generation to have been born in the United States of America. That may explain his naivety about his heritage. The family procured some property there and got by. It was the current marquis, Gerald Fitzwilliam, who began working as a ranch hand in Texas after the war between the States and worked his way up the ranks. He became a foreman at a young age and his talent helped him secure a very favorable marriage. He made a small fortune from the cattle trade and invested most of that setting up further cattle ranches in Argentina. Subsequent investments also paid off and some ten years ago the marquis bought a house in Portobello, Dublin, took his place in the Irish Peerage and proceeded to build this house as well.”

“A remarkable man then,” I stated, quite impressed.

“Indeed, Watson, indeed.”

“But why are we going to see the Marquis of Tach Saggart?”

“Why Watson, we are not.”

I blinked at that and must confess I was baffled by Holmes. This would not be the first, nor the last.

“Then who are we calling on, Holmes?”

“We are calling on Mr. John Miller of course.”

Chapter Four:

A Robbery

When Holmes dropped the knocker on the oaken door of Clonmore House, it took several moments before anyone showed up to open it.

I took my time observing the surroundings, as Holmes had shown me how to do many times. The pillars of the door frame were made of concrete painted white to resemble marble, the doorsteps were the same. I drew the conclusion the house had been built in a hurry and on a budget, though it certainly was not without significant value. The garden was well cared for and I noticed the grass had only recently been cut. I assumed Mr. John Miller had been hired as the new gardener by the Marquis and we were seeking permission to find him on the grounds.

Yet, the moment the butler allowed us entrance into Clonmore House, Holmes demanded to see the master’s son, although my good friend did not wait for the butler to show us to his young master; instead, he brushed past the man and went straight up the stairs.

The winding stairs that led us to the second floor of the impressive domicile were made from oak which seemed to have matured in the ten years since it had been installed. In alcoves along the steps were placed busts, which I took to be images of the ancestors of the family. On the third floor of the house lay a plush carpet and the walls were lined with portraits and paintings. They were perfectly aligned and not one was out of place. The walls were spotless and the windows overlooking the lawn had been cleaned that very morning. I could still smell a whiff of rubbing alcohol.

At the end of the hallway, Holmes halted. He knocked on the door. A strong voice bade him enter. I went in behind him and saw a young man reclined on a chaise lounge. He had a book in his hands and was looking up at us.

“Good day, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” Holmes greeted him. “I am Sherlock Holmes; this is my associate, Doctor Watson.”

The man rose and offered us each his hand to shake in turn.

“Gerald Fitzwilliam,” he introduced himself. “Your fame precedes you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fitzwilliam.” Holmes gestured to a sofa by the large bay window. “May we?”

Not waiting for a positive answer, Holmes plunked himself down in the plush velvet covering of the sofa. I sat down next to him.

“To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Mr. Holmes?” Fitzwilliam began. “I sincerely doubt such a famous sleuth would be calling on me without good cause.”

“We are looking for a Mr. John Miller, former gardener at Galham House.” Holmes smiled then.

I knew by the delicate shade of crimson in the face of young master Fitzwilliam that we had come to the right place.

Holmes continued, “Your father holds similar beliefs as Lord Harcourt, I imagine.”

Young Fitzwilliam nodded. “He does not exactly approve of marrying within the peerage either. He has an American heiress lined up for me to wed.”

“Did you know Miss Harcourt before taking up the job at Galham House?”

Fitzwilliam shook his head. “I did not. I had only seen her from afar, never met her or spoke to her.”

“How is that possible? You live so near to each other, there must have been ample opportunities to meet,” I demanded of him, interrupting the conversation between Holmes and him.

“I spent my childhood in America and Ireland and then most of my time here I have been at Eton and at Cambridge.”

“How does a Cambridge man end up as a gardener at Galham House?” I blurted out, beside myself with curiosity.

Fitzwilliam gave a wry smile. “Business is rather dull work. I suppose I am good at it, a talent I must have been born with, but I do not enjoy business. Simple tasks please me much more. Obviously, I could never allow a lowly position like that under my own name, so I took an alias.”

He got up and poured himself a double measure of whiskey at the well-stocked bar located in a corner of his room. He poured the contents of his glass straight down his throat and returned to his seat. “As you are already aware of my alias, Mr. Holmes, I then I assume you are making these inquiries in regard to the manuscript Miss Harcourt and I discovered?”

Holmes nodded. “You knew instantly it was written by William Shakespeare.”

“I did.” Fitzwilliam smiled. “I studied him extensively at Cambridge. I even managed to lay eyes on some original handwritten documents. I recognized the handwriting immediately.”

Holmes said nothing for a while. He did not have the frenzied look he tended to have when working out a problem. I had to remind myself of his claim of having solved the mystery already.

Eventually, Holmes got up.

“I do implore you to speak to your neighbor’s daughter and reveal your true identity. She is quite worried about young Mr. Miller. And it is obvious that you care deeply about her.”

“I assume I exhibited all the characters of a man in love?”

“You did,” said Holmes. “And then some.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam smiled meekly and rose to shake our hands again. “I shall, Mr. Holmes.”

We made our way back to the station to catch the train back to London, but Holmes decided we could catch a later train and guided me into the Penstone Arms Inn across from Penstone Heath Station.

A helpful hostess seated us in a corner of the pub for a rather well-prepared lunch of roast beef and some very good ale. We entered into a conversation about the various affairs that had kept us both busy over the past month, and all the reasons we had not been able to see more of each other. It seemed Holmes had spent a lot of time solving quite a few uninteresting cases. It was not often he wasted time on those, but it seemed there had been a surprising lack of challenging crimes and mysteries in the last few months, causing him to take up such cases for financial reasons.

***

It was just as we were finishing up our tankards of ale that a boy stormed into the pub. He raced to the bar and asked something of the barkeeper who in turn pointed in our direction and the boy came up to our table.

“Mr. Holmes?” he asked timidly.

Holmes nodded as a confirmation.

“I have a telegram for you, sir.”

“Thank you, my boy.”

Holmes fished in his pocket for some sort of monetary reward for the messenger. He ended up handing the boy a sixpence piece, which was rather gladly received. It was a significant reward for a few minutes’ work. The boy looking completely dumbfounded was of no surprise.

Holmes read the telegram and his face betrayed a look of shock. He shot up from his chair, gave me the telegram to read and went at once to the bar to pay for our luncheon.

The telegram was from Holmes’s housekeeper. It read:

“As I was out not half an hour ago, someone entered the premises. There is nothing missing, bar the manuscript you have been researching.”

I folded the telegram up, put it into my jacket pocket and rushed after my friend.