The Final Page of Baker Street (10 page)

To have heard Terrence tell it, Lord Steynwood himself was anything but idle. Apparently, His Lordship's money came from sugar, which he had imported from the Colonies somewhere in the Caribbean. Lord Steynwood, so the story goes, bought
Idyllic Vale
from a turn-of-the-century tobacco importer who had needed more cash. His Lordship completed his marriage of wealth and influence when he spent much of his fortune on a string of important newspapers.

Now, as we all know, the man born Lucius Ward stands before us as one of the preeminent powerbrokers of our age. Which means, of course, that once everyone came to believe that Terrence Leonard had killed Lord Steynwood's older daughter, His Lordship could - and, I'm convinced,
did
- make certain that that was how the story would remain. Blame it on the husband. That way, gossip about Lord Steynwood's daughter could be contained.

Lord Steynwood possessed the capability to make people believe Terrence killed her. Lord Steynwood - or his people - could have caught up with Terrence and forced him to confess. From what Terrence used to tell me, I have no doubt Lord Steynwood had the means necessary to convince Terrence that, from the moment Sylvia died, Terrence's life would no longer be worth living. In short, the suicide of Sylvia's husband has been most convenient for Lord Steynwood.

The train whistle hoots. It might be in derision of my conspiratorial theory. But then again, it might be an underscoring. What it really does is announce our arrival at Bourne End just across the river.

As we roll into the station, an ominous great tower of steam billows from the unseen locomotive that will complete the final leg of the journey from London to Marlow. But soon I have to laugh. This “powerful” locomotive turns out to be nothing more than a small, green, cylindrical tank engine with the white numerals 522 on the front - altogether more fit to model for a child's toy than for delivering all-important people on their all-important errands. Only now does a fellow passenger inform me that you complete the third part of the journey to Marlow on a small railway so slow that with great affection the locals have nicknamed it “The Marlow Donkey.” When it finally completes the just-under three miles to Marlow, the little engine trumpets a loud blast of its whistle to announce its arrival, a grand gesture from so meagre a source.

(The rest of this account I shall complete during my return to London.)

* * *

Who could have predicted that an evening begun so calmly could end with so much drama?

Red-brick buildings trimmed in white line Marlow's High Street. With a deep-blue sky as background, yesterday presented a beautiful afternoon for a walk to my destination. A leisurely stroll past a number of intersecting roads brought me to a turning just off West Street. On that picturesque lane canopied by arching boughs stands the unique cottage of Elaine and Raphael Sterne. Its disjointed storeys, its bricks in varying colours of honey and red, and its steep mansard roof make it one of the craziest-looking houses I've ever seen, an ill-matched puzzle whose pieces have been jammed together. Studying its overlapping lines long enough could make you dizzy.

To be honest though, gentlemen, it really wasn't my critical reaction to some off-kilter building that was quickening my pulse, but rather the thought of seeing the fair Elaine.

The invitation had encouraged casual attire, and I was dressed in boater and light linen. Some twenty people were already milling about when I arrived. Upon my entrance, a stuffed shirt in a dinner jacket took my hat, and I immediately snatched a flute of champagne from a silver tray carried by a cute, sparkling-eyed little maid in a crisp black-and-white uniform. In the drawing room, Raphael Sterne, the man of the hour, was mixing with several genteel characters bedecked in flowery waistcoats and iridescent ascots - a bouquet of humanity, you might say. They seemed caught up in some dilettantish banter; but upon noticing my appearance, Sterne began madly waving his arms in a frantic effort to motion me over.

Unfortunately, I must now report that, despite our noble attempt to save Raphael Sterne from the hellish den that his drinking had led him to, it was quite obvious from his stentorian pronouncements and raucous laughter, not to mention his bloodshot eyes and swaying gait, that he'd been hitting the bottle again. I reckon that you have about as much chance of separating a drunk from his alcohol as detaching a priest from his collar.

Then Elaine stepped into view.

Obviously, she had heard her husband's loud voice, and now she walked - perhaps “glided” is a more precise term - towards us. Tonight, her golden hair tumbled to her shoulders. She was dressed in midnight blue, a fabulous low-cut chiffon fabric that, without its black underpinning, you could almost see through, the gold-coin necklace seeming to float on the swell of her breasts. Yet her piercing eyes of cornflower blue expressed an annoyance I hadn't seen before. On the previous occasions we had met, her primary emotion had been one of concern. Tonight she was full of wrath. Even in anger, with her eyes narrowed and her mouth pursed, she reigned magnificent.

“Rafe,” she said to her husband, “you've had quite enough.”

Stashing his glass on the oak sideboard behind him, he held out his empty hands. “But I'm not drinking anything, my dear.”

“You know exactly what I mean,” she charged.

“I was merely about to welcome our friend - ” and here he actually embraced me “ - to the writers' district.”

Fortunately, he let me go after a moment, about as long as I could tolerate the stink of his alcoholic breath.

“Oh,” he went on, “perhaps you don't know why I call it the ‘writers' district.”

I presumed that the term must have had some connection to Shelley, but I shook my head at his reference.

“You see?” Sterne said, staring Elaine down. “Actually,” he went on to explain, “Shelley and his wife lived in Albion House not far from here. It's where she finished
Frankenstein
. And Shelley's friend, Thomas Love Peacock, the novelist, lived just round the corner in West Street.
I
live here, and now
you've
arrived - a contributor to
The Academy
and to
The Gazette
if I'm not mistaken.”

“And
The Spectator
,” I added.

An effete young man sporting round eyeglasses and a long white cigarette in an ebony holder regarded me for an uncomfortable moment.

“Chandler, is it?” he asked, “R.T. Chandler, the poet?”

“Guilty as charged,” I quipped.

The flock of swells shared a round of laughter, though I couldn't be sure whether they were laughing at my wit - or at my poetic aspirations.

“And what are you working on now, my dear boy?” asked a young dandy. Sporting a shock of black hair and a red ascot, he couldn't have been much older than I.

“A couple of essays,” I answered. “One deals with the ever-increasing tolerance of readers towards heroes. The commonplace reader doesn't concern himself with the breeding of his heroes any more. He demands only that these heroes can distinguish themselves in some way. Those are the heroes I call ‘remarkable.'”

Raised eyebrows greeted my explanation - as if they'd originally deemed me incapable of formulating so erudite a thesis.

“But lately,” I went on, “I've become even more interested in the nature of the writers themselves, the kind of writers that some people call artists” - here I turned to gaze in particular at the man with the long cigarette holder - “but whom critics like me call ‘literary fops.'”

The group scattered as if iced water had been dumped on them. All but Sterne. He took the opportunity to retrieve the tall, narrow glass he had attempted to hide. After a long pull, he said, “You sound a bit irked with the current state of
belles letters
.”

“Only with some of its inhabitants.” In his intoxicated state, I realized, he would never conclude that I might be referring to him.

Indeed, he took up only my earlier reference and lifted his glass to mine. “Here's to ‘remarkable heroes' - like you and Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson - would they were here - who rescued me from the villainous Dr. Vering.” And then he gulped down the rest of his champagne.

At that moment a new couple entered the fray: a portly, middle-aged man with ginger hair and a grizzled beard accompanied by a handsome, raven-haired young woman.

“Dr. and Mrs. Goring,” the stuffed shirt announced.

So this was Cora, Sylvia Leonard's younger sister, accompanied by the very doctor Lord Steynwood had called after the fact to administer to Terrence Leonard's murdered wife. Marlow seemed to be a small world.

As the Gorings steered in our direction, Sterne observed through clenched teeth, “Of course, Elaine
had
to invite
him.
She's always inventing some bloody reason to see the bastard.”

Goring's eyes travelled over Elaine' body, and a broad smile splashed across his face.

“You stay away from my wife!” Sterne suddenly shouted.

Shocked surprise eclipsed the doctor's smile; his wife clutched his arm.

“Now, Rafe,” Dr. Goring said. “You know you have these silly fantasies.” He spoke slowly, as if talking to a child. “You really must control yourself.”

It was instructive to watch the two women during this exchange. Elaine's face turned red, not out of embarrassment - or so it seemed to me - but out of anger. Cora's brow furrowed, as if she was annoyed; and, tugging at her husband's arm, she pulled him across the room towards some other couples, who were still marking the tense encounter with open mouths.

“I told you we shouldn't have come,” Cora whispered to the doctor as they passed.

At the same time, Elaine was cornering her husband. “Rafe,” she commanded, “that's enough! This is supposed to be a celebration of your return to society. Let's not have you fall apart all over again.” And with a hand at his elbow, she steered him away from the crowd and seated him on a damask sofa.

Eyes closed, Sterne sank into the pillows. At the same time, his wife walked across the room where she stood quite alone for a few moments. It was, I realized, the perfect opportunity for me to approach her. Maybe she recognized the mien of the hunter as I dared to close in, for she began nervously twisting the gold doubloon at her neck. And yet she allowed me to guide her through the open French windows, which I closed behind us, and out onto the balcony. The balcony overlooks a garden, which has been carved out of the small hill just below the ground floor of the oddly-shaped house. The sun had disappeared, but the warmth of the day still lingered. We faced the darkness together as a train whistle echoed through the night. It must have been the Marlow Donkey announcing its latest arrival.

Elaine leaned towards me, her deep-blue gaze piercing my soul like a sword. “I owe you many thanks,” she whispered.

I took her face in my hands and, shop-worn Galahad that I am, kissed her hard on the lips.

I know what I was hoping for; I didn't anticipate what I got. She stood there looking blankly at me. I grabbed her shoulders and, holding her at arm's length, tried without any luck to penetrate her stare. She reacted the way the tree greets the woodcutter. I let her go, and she, clutching the small doubloon, walked slowly back into the house.

I followed soon after, trying to understand what had just happened. She was a married woman, after all, and yet she hadn't pushed me away. On the other hand, she hadn't taken me in her arms either, as I was so eagerly anticipating.

I'd already missed the last train, and I was in no hurry to leave. With nowhere to go, I sat dumbly by, watching others collect their wraps from a hired footman and make their way out the front door. Sterne himself had quit the scene much earlier. I hadn't seen him go up the stairs, but I was well aware of his absence. For her part, Elaine was seeing the Gorings off; all the while she never looked at me. By midnight, I seemed to be the only guest remaining, and with no alternative but to say good-bye, I stood up.

Suddenly, a cry echoed from the deserted garden like the caw of a crow in an empty field.

“Help me!” a quavering voice called out. Despite the tremulous tone, I recognized it immediately as belonging to Raphael Sterne.

With Elaine right behind me, I ran out into the night and down to the garden. I stood just below the balcony that Elaine and I had occupied a short time before, but now the warm air held a clamminess that I hadn't felt earlier, a cold clamminess that attached itself to my collar. Despite the night's heat, icy fingers clutched at my neck.

Even in the darkness, I could distinguish Sterne sprawled out at the foot of a thick hedgerow. As I approached him, I saw blood dripping from the right side of his head. I grabbed my handkerchief and pressed it against what appeared to be a cut above his temple. I hoped I could stop the bleeding.

“God!” Elaine exploded in a mixture of pity and disgust - and I might be exaggerating the pity

Since she clearly wanted nothing to do with this mess, I guessed that I would come in handy after all. I hurried back into the house, found the hired butler who'd taken my hat when I'd arrived and motioned him out to the garden. “Let's get him upstairs,” I said when he got over the shock of seeing his employer collapsed in the bushes. With poor Rafe barely able to drape his arms around our shoulders, the two of us staggered into the house half dragging the semi-conscious writer.