The New Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes (16 page)

‘So you brokered a happy ending for everyone, including the murderer?’

‘The Almighty moves in mysterious ways, Watson. Within a month of their journey across the Channel, Stanley Vyse had died and his daughter was back with her aunt in Henrietta Street. When last I heard of them, Thalia had found a beau and her aunt was making ends meet. At least the first floor was available again for letting to suitable tenants. Now, my dear fellow, I trust I have quenched your thirst for mystery for one evening at least. Do you hear the clock striking? Ten, eleven, twelve…Happy Christmas!’

The Case of the Musical Butler

In the months following my marriage, I remained in regular contact with Mr Sherlock Holmes, and ten days after he paid a welcome visit to our home, I took a week’s holiday from my practice, and returned to the lodgings he and I had shared; my wife was visiting her mother, who was suffering from a minor indisposition. During this period, Holmes was consulted by Sir Greville Davidson with regard to his butler, but the circumstances of the case were so delicate that it remains impossible for my account of it to be published whilst the last of the principal characters in the little drama remains alive. Nevertheless, I have decided to write up my notes before memories fade, since the whole affair provides a remarkable insight into an unexpectedly compassionate side to Holmes’ personality, as well as demonstrating his skill as a solver of puzzles.

Sir Greville entered our lives on a cold and blustery October afternoon. As I watched from the bow window as a brisk wind blew leaves across Baker Street, I noticed a tall man, limping along the pavement with the aid of a stout walking stick. I estimated that he was some sixty five years of age, with craggy features and silver hair, and that he was a man of means, given the smartness of his black frock coat and grey trousers, and the shine of his shoes. As he examined the numbers of the houses, I described him to my friend.

‘I suppose that will be Sir Greville Davidson from Oaklands Hall, on the outskirts of Wallingford,’ Holmes murmured absently, ‘I anticipated that he might wish to seek my advice.’

‘Holmes, you astound me!’ I exclaimed. ‘In London alone, there must be scores of men who match the description I supplied. How can you possibly assert..?’

Holmes yawned. ‘It is of no consequence, Watson. Besides, I may very well be mistaken.’

For Sherlock Holmes to admit the possibility that one of his deductions – even when proffered in such casual fashion and on the basis of the slenderest evidence – was a sign that he had become gripped by
ennui
. This I found disturbing, for I knew, none better, that in order to alleviate boredom, he was apt to reach for the morocco case in which he kept his syringe and cocaine.

The bell clanged, and when Mrs Hudson flourished a card and announced that Sir Greville Davidson wished to see Holmes, I was about to offer my congratulations on the inspired nature of his guesswork – for what else could it have been? – when my friend murmured, ‘Send him away.’

‘Holmes!’ I expostulated. ‘You cannot simply decline to see the man!’

‘Pray, why not?’ Holmes lifted his right eyebrow, as if he lacked the energy to raise both. ‘I crave the stimulation of an unorthodox and knotty problem. I am a consulting detective, not a nursemaid to the gentry.’

‘And how can you be sure that Sir Greville does not wish to seek your advice on a matter of breath-taking complexity?’

Holmes waved a hand at the sheaf of clippings which lay on his roll-top desk. ‘Because bloodstained clothes, apparently belonging to a tramp, have been found in a ditch near the Thames outside Wallingford. Of the hypothesised tramp, there is no sign, and the police’s lack of concern appears to border on lack of interest, but an excitable journalist with nothing better to write about has penned a paragraph raising the spectre of foul play. If my memory of the geography of Oxfordshire does not fail me, the discovery was made adjacent to the boundary of the Oaklands Estate, one of the most notabl in the county. If a crime has perchance been committed, Sir Greville is unlikely to be interested in identifying the perpetrator. He withdrew from society some years ago, as I recall, and a man in his position is apt, in such a case, to think only of protecting his reputation and privacy. Assisting the wealthy to keep their names out of the Press is, however, a task for others.’

The long-suffering landlady cast a despairing glance in my direction, but knew better than to argue with her lodger when he was in such a humour. Scarcely did she leave the room, however, than the door was flung open again, and the gentleman whom I had seen in Baker Street appeared before us. His face was red with the exertion of climbing the stairs, and his brow glistened with perspiration. The look in his gray eyes betrayed a deep anxiety.

‘Mr Holmes, I must apologise for disturbing you in such an unseemly fashion, but I must speak to you!’

My friend frowned. ‘Sir Greville, I fear that...’

‘For pity’s sake!’ the intruder exclaimed. ‘I am at my wits’ end! Will you not allow me five minutes to explain the circumstances that bring me here?’

A curious look passed across Holmes’ face and I saw that, although it was out of character for him to change his mind on such a matter, our visitor’s evident anguish had made an impression upon him.

‘Five minutes, Sir Greville? Very well. Are we agreed that, as soon as that time has expired, you will take your leave upon my indicating that I wish to hear nothing more?’

I could not conceive that our visitor was accustomed to being addressed in so forceful, and indeed humiliating, a manner, but he nodded by way of assent.

‘Very well.’ Holmes leaned forward, and I sensed that his interest was quickening, as if Sir Greville had passed an unspoken test. ‘Pray be seated and explain to Dr Watson and myself what brings you here.’  

‘Mr Holmes, you will be aware that my family has lived at Oaklands Hall for generations. Almost one hundred and fifty years, to be precise. But I am the last of the line. My dear wife and I had two sons, but the elder died of consumption when he was nine years old, and the younger within two days of his birth. The difficulties that my wife suffered in labour meant that we were never able to have any further children, and I reconciled myself to the prospect of dying without an heir. Our consolation was a very happy marriage, but some five years ago, my wife became unwell and the final years of her life were spent as an invalid. Because of her illness, I had time enough to prepare for bereavement, but since her death in January, my life has been empty, and frankly I shall not be sorry when the time comes for the two of us to be reunited.’

The old man hesitated, as if overcome by emotion, and I saw Holmes cast a weary glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. Time was running short for Sir Greville to command my friend’s attention.

‘Mr Holmes, some eighteen months ago, I engaged the services of a butler by the name of Meade. His predecessor had served my family for thirty years, but died suddenly of a heart attack. I have always placed high store on the quality of my servants, and my wife was attended by a trained nurse as well as a companion. Meade was a young man with limited experience, but came with an excellent character from the house in the North of England where he had worked previously.’

‘As a butler?’

‘For a few months, yes. Apparently he had started as a manservant, employed by a brother and sister named Drake, but had shewn such devotion to duty that he earned rapid promotion. Miss Drake spoke most highly of him, and emphasised that he would have remained in their employment had she and her brother not decided to move to the Continent. Their loss, she assured me, would be my gain.’

‘And you took her at her word?’

 ‘Mr Holmes, I am old enough and cynical enough to be well aware that a glowing testimonial may be given by a person glad to be rid of its subject, but I fancy that I am a good judge of a fellow, and Meade impressed me as industrious and keen to learn. Nor was I disappointed. In a very short time, he proved himself indispensable, and his support was invaluable during the last difficult months of my wife’s life. Since that time he has served me with absolute dedication and I have come to regard him – not as a friend, precisely, you will understand, but as a man in whom I may repose the utmost trust and confidence. No-one could be more reliable, and if my boys had lived, I would wish them to have been as decent, hard-working and kindly as young Meade.’ Breathing hard, Sir Greville mopped his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. ‘His constancy therefore makes the latest turn of events all the more astonishing.’

Holmes leaned forward. ‘Pray continue.’

‘What troubles me is that Meade has disappeared without a trace.’

‘When was this?’

‘I last saw him on Saturday night. I felt indisposed – Meade had himself walked all the way into the town that morning to purchase some medicines for me - and I retired very early, at six o’clock. He was not due to work on Sunday – that is, the day before yesterday – and I told him that if he wished to take himself off for the evening, that was perfectly in order.’

‘And he has not as yet returned?’ My friend yawned. ‘There may, of course, be many explanations for a servant’s failure to attend his place of work.’

Sir Greville’s stern features creased in a frown and his eyes flashed. For an instant it was borne home to me that this man had once been far more formidable than the ageing and ailing individual ensconced in our sitting-room.

‘You have not heard the half of it, Mr Holmes. Let me assure you that Meade is the very soul of reliability. Never once has he failed in the slightest duty. He commands the respect of all my servants, and I can only say that I find him as attentive as he is accomplished.’

‘And what, pray, are his particular accomplishments?’ my friend enquired in a languid tone.

‘He is very capable in all household duties. When my cook was taken ill some months ago, he deputised for her in the kitchen with rare skill. But more than that, he is a talented musician. When, shortly after he arrived at Oaklands, he mentioned that he enjoyed playing the pianoforte, I asked if he would play for my wife one day, expecting little more than a hammering-out of a few familiar tunes, but to my amazement I found that he could play Chopin exquisitely.  Even in her final hours, my poor wife found a degree of solace in his skill, and for that alone I shall forever be in his debt.  Since she died, I have often asked him to entertain me and he takes such evident pleasure in it, that I once asked him if he had not considered forging a career as a musician. However, he simply smiled and said that he would find large audiences too daunting. I found that quite credible, for despite his natural affability, Meade has always struck me as a person who is happiest in his own company. He would eschew the limelight.’

‘Perhaps he has changed his mind and resolved to seek his fortune elsewhere,’ my friend suggested.

‘No, I cannot conceive of it, Mr Holmes. However, when he failed to return, I looked in his room and realised that he had taken with him his clothes and other possessions.’

‘Did anyone see him leave the Hall?’

‘I questioned my servants, but none of them could cast any light on the matter. He might have left at any time between six o’clock on Saturday evening, and half past eight the next morning. I caused enquiries to be made at the local station, and I learned that a person in a coat and muffler and carrying a suitcase had been seen catching a train to London. This was probably Meade, but it is impossible to be sure. It was apparent that everyone else at Oaklands shared my bewilderment at Meade’s disappearance, which came utterly out of the blue. And then, this morning - I received the following missive.’

Our visitor plunged his hand into his pocket and extracted an envelope which he passed to Holmes. It was addressed, in a neat and curving script, to Sir Greville at Oaklands Hall, and my friend inspected it with as much care as if it were a manuscript written in cuneiform before sliding out a sheet of notepaper which bore a few words in the same careful hand.

‘Sir Greville,

I must apologise profoundly for the suddenness of my departure from your service. Suffice to say that I could not have wished for a better master, and I thank you for your many kindnesses from the bottom of my heart.

 Yours sincerely,

M. Meade’

‘You see, Mr Holmes?’ Sir Greville demanded. ‘No explanation whatsoever.’

‘You are aware, presumably, that certain items have been found in a ditch not far from your estate?’ my friend asked.

Sir Greville nodded. ‘Indeed, sir. Yesterday, a passing cyclist discovered certain items of blood-stained clothing in a ditch and informed the police. It has become a matter of some notoriety in the neighbourhood. But the clothes belonged to a tramp, Mr Holmes. It is inconceivable that Meade would ever wear ragged things.’

‘He takes a pride in his appearance?’

‘Most certainly. I have never known a man so neat in his attire. You may take it from me, sir, that the garments in the ditch have no connection with Meade.’

‘And you wish me to find Meade?’ Holmes asked, a curious note entering his voice.

‘I do.’ Sir Greville’s voice trembled. He was, I surmised, a man unaccustomed to displaying weakness, but it was plain that he was close to tears. ‘You see, I am a dying man, if my doctor is to be believed, and I wished to repay Meade for his selfless service to my wife and myself. I had it in mind to adopt him as my son and heir.’

***

Two hours later, Holmes rejoined me in the sitting room at 221b Baker Street, rubbing his hands together and shifting his arm-chair closer to the fire. Having despatched Sir Greville back to Oaklands Hall for a good rest, with an assurance that he would look into the matter of the disappearing butler, and call upon his client on the morrow, he had promptly disappeared himself, without a word of explanation.

‘Well, Watson, what do you make of Sir Greville’s tale?’