Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Cold-Served Revenge

VIII: Nothing Human...

When Holmes and our hostess finished playing loud applause broke out in the drawing room. In my opinion the ovation was richly deserved, and I also applauded vigorously. Lady Alice and the detective were bowing every which way and my companion was being bombarded with congratulations for saving the unexpected situation.

Lady Darringford extricated herself from the cluster of admirers and shook his hand.

“You were a fine adversary,” she said, her bosom heaving.

“I thought that we were playing together, not against one another,” said Holmes jovially.

“It depends on how you look at music and the world, Mr. ...”

“Parker, Cedric Parker. And this is my friend, Dr Watson.”

“How odd, I immediately figured you for a doctor,” said Alice, smiling and looking me directly in the eyes for the first time. “Judging by how you were examining me, I thought you must be either a doctor or a womaniser.”

I turned beet red.

“It is all right, you flatter me,” she quickly added.

She was about forty, perhaps less, but the smooth skin on her face made any estimate of her exact age a pleasant yet fruitless pursuit. Thanks to her coquettishness I did not even feel much older than she, despite the fact that Holmes and I were old enough to be her father.

Pankhurst pushed his way to us with the contrite Grace.

“Alice, it was wonderful!” cried the girl, hurling her arms around her friend’s neck, while the officer greeted Lady Darringoford with a subtle nod of his head. “I was so afraid that I would ruin your performance.”

“Fortunately I was able to replace you,” said Holmes, returning her violin.

Grace thanked him and took back the instrument, but otherwise did not even look at him. It was peculiar. After all, he had helped her out of a tight spot and had saved the evening.

“How is your hand, my dear?” asked the Lady, placing her arm around the girl’s shoulders maternally and leading her young charge away, for all the world as though we had ceased to exist.

“It is better, it was just a momentary indisposition,” said the girl, evidently relieved that Lady Alice was not angry with her.

The two women clearly were very close, just as Pankhurst had told us in the garden. I did not see anything amiss, but was unfamiliar with the details and did not know what opinions Lady Darringford could put in Grace’s head.

“Are you leaving us, my lady?” the detective asked. “I had hoped that we would have time to speak together.”

“My dear Mr Parker, I would also like to get to know you and your kind companion, but you see how many guests I have. It would be rude of me to devote all of my time only to you. You must therefore excuse me now. Why don’t you come tomorrow afternoon for tea?”

“It is agreed,” said Holmes, accepting the invitation on both our behalves.

Alice Darringford floated off nobly. I followed her with my eyes until her peacock feather disappeared into the crowd.

“She knows how to bewitch a fellow,” said Pankhurst conspiratorially. “But don’t get your hopes up. That woman has left a trail of broken hearts!”

I felt ashamed that my glances had been so obvious and tried to laugh it off by waving my hand, but Holmes bristled.

“I do not follow your meaning, my dear fellow,” he said. “The Lady is certainly admirable, I do not deny it; but to attribute any ulterior motive to us is not gentlemanly of you. Dr Watson is a married man!”

Pankuhrst mumbled something about him not being the only one, but did not continue in this vein further, for which I was thankful.

The officer remained in our company a little while longer and then set off in search of his daughter. We stayed at the party another two hours, but did not encounter the lady again, only spying her here and there as she moved among the other guests.

At around midnight we left and our carriage took us home.

As we shared our impressions of the evening it surprised me that Holmes did not mention Lady Darringford even once. It seemed that Pankhurst’s daughter, Grace, had made a bigger impression on him.

But my thoughts remained in the company of the enchanting Alice, so I did not pay much attention to him. I therefore do not have much to relate from the long journey home.

But the detective kept up the topic even after we arrived home.

“An interesting girl, your friend’s daughter,” he said as we sat in the drawing room sipping cognac.

Did I detect the sound of Aphrodite’s angels? As far as I recalled, Holmes, whose priorities had always been elsewhere, had been struck by cupid’s arrow only once before. In my eyes Grace Pankhurst could not compare either in beauty or intelligence to the late Irene Adler[18].

But I could not explain the detective’s interest in the girl as anything other than a growing affection. She was neither a woman suspected of a crime nor a client.

“In what way did she capture your attention?” I asked deliberately, careful not to step into a wasps´ nest.

“As yet I cannot say,” he said thoughtfully. “But I will tell you one thing, my friend. That girl certainly conceals more than her father and everyone else thinks.”

It sounded serious.

While I had been married several times and had more than once experienced the infatuation that a woman’s beauty could cause, Lady Darringford seemed almost like a miracle.

But I would be a poor friend indeed were I to attempt to discourage his burgeoning feelings for a much younger woman. Instead I smiled and drank to his health. Perhaps the sound of the violin had brought two lonely souls together and the reserved way in which Grace had exchanged words with the detective had attracted him.

“And how did Lady Darringford strike you?” I asked.

“Very well, just like you, Watson,” he laughed. “And those words about a trail of broken hearts to her bedroom! Some might take that as a challenge. But she certainly did not behave like a feminist.”

He had brought up what the old officer had said, which I had also been pondering.

“Pankhurst is old fashioned, I am sure that he was exaggerating,” I said. “He considers any woman who wants to drive her own automobile a feminist. He seems to have forgotten that he has served a queen his whole life. God knows what led him to this opinion. Not every accomplished and self-assured woman is a feminist, after all.”

“An impassioned defence! Do make sure that your wife does not find out. She might interpret it the wrong way.”

He was right.

For the first time since laying eyes on Lady Darringford I thought of my wife and was beset by a feeling of guilt. I loved her and my feelings for the beautiful Alice seemed like a betrayal. Never mind that it was purely platonic; I knew that given the chance reason would give way to lust.

“Why must you keep bringing that up?” I said angrily, although the anger was mostly directed at myself.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders and did not test me further. He recognised that I alone needed to resolve my inner demons. We each had our own opinions about these matters, but I was encouraged by the last question that he asked me on the staircase as we went up to our rooms.

“What do you think about love? Can it still afflict those as old as us?”

“It is a natural human reaction, one that we should not discourage,” I said, and we bade each other goodnight.

Alice Darringford certainly made me feel less than sixty, but I kept that to myself.

In the light of day Alice’s garden was even more beautiful than at night, and the same could be said of its owner. But that afternoon I had the opportunity to enjoy the former much more closely, as a spring storm was raging outside and our meeting thus took place in the drawing room. All trace of yesterday evening’s party was gone. The servants had cleaned up everything and returned the polished furniture in the morning.

Lady Darringford was wearing a long, light-coloured dress and her hair was tied in a braid. The way she sat in the armchair across from us, with her knees firmly pressed together, a handkerchief in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, gave her an air of modesty.

Since our conversation the night before Holmes and I had only exchanged a few words, mainly of a practical nature. That morning we both had been burdened by questions for which neither of us had any answer. The detective seemed distracted. And my resolve to resist Alice’s charms was tested every time she looked at me.

But she was in a very fine mood. The garden party evidently had been a great success, thanks in large part to the concert, for which she again thanked Holmes. For about half an hour, while the servant laid out refreshments, we chatted about the unpredictability of May weather and how we were looking forward to the summer. Alice was no fool, however, and after a short while she sensed that we had come for a different purpose.

“Meteorological forecasts are no doubt a classic English topic of conversation over afternoon tea, but something tells me that you are weighed down by other matters,” she said simply.

The detective conceded that she was right and stood up from the table. Whenever he was about to interrogate a witness or launch into a monologue he liked to stand up and pace with his arms folded behind his back.

Today he did the same.

But before he started asking questions, he noticed a series of framed photographs of the lady’s nearest and dearest displayed on a bureau. Among them were several photographs of Rupert Darringford.

“That is my brother,” said our hostess, noticing his inquisitive gaze.

“Brother...” Holmes repeated softly.

Of course he had recognised the man in the photographs, and he examined them with even greater interest. Many were taken in exotic countries: India, Ceylon, Burma and elsewhere. They confirmed what the secret service had told us about his passion for travel. In one of the photographs Lord Darringford posed with a tribe of African natives, a large boa constrictor draped around his neck.

“That must be very dangerous!” said the detective.

“Beautiful things often are,” said Alice, her eyes sparkling.

“Does that mean women as well?”

“It depends what woman you have in mind,” she answered.

This wordplay evidently amused her.

He picked up another silver-framed photograph in which the siblings could be seen together. Alice was sitting on the hood of the Silver Ghost, while Darringford nonchalantly leaned against the open door. He looked more jovial here then when we had met him. In the background was an old castle, probably in Scotland.

“Our last photograph together,” said the lady wistfully.

“The last?”

“Yes, it was taken three years ago. I have not seen my brother since.”

“Oh I see,” said Holmes.

He stared at the photo for a little while longer and then returned it to its place.

“May I inquire as to what happened?”

Alice placed her cup on the table and dabbed the tears from her eyes with a handkerchief. Talking about her brother upset her. No doubt the siblings had had some sort of falling out. I sat closer to her and tried to comfort her.

“I do not know myself exactly,” she sobbed. “He suddenly disappeared and broke off all communication with me.”

“Strange.”

“The only thing that makes me happy is the knowledge that he is still alive. About twice a year he sends me a letter or telegram, always from a different corner of the globe. You see, Rupert is the only person I have in the world.”

“Which makes his behaviour even more curious,” said the detective.

“He has been rather queer since childhood,” said Alice, sighing. “When our parents died it made things worse. I thought that his wandering and adventurous nature would change things for the better, but clearly the opposite has happened. I would give everything for him to just come home.”

“I have heard a rumour that he suffers from a mental illness.”

“I would prefer not to talk about that, it is too private and delicate a matter. Yes, he is not healthy, but he is not crazy, as some people say.”

“Do you really have no notion of where your brother is now?”

“No,” she said, lowering her eyes. “He sent his last telegram from the continent, just before Christmas.”

That did not surprise us.

“From Italy?” asked Holmes.

“Yes, how did you know?” said the lady with surprise.

“We recently met there with his... business partners,” Holmes coughed, glancing at me quickly. “May I see the telegram?”

“Certainly,” said Alice.

She jumped up and took a leather folder tied with a ribbon from the bureau. It contained several telegrams, which she gave us to examine. Holmes looked them over and then handed them to me.

They did not contain anything that could lead us to him. As the lady said, they were all sent from somewhere else around the world. They contained only a few printed words about his health or that he was still not considering coming home, a few orders for the servants and a request to his sister not to try to find him. When the time came he would contact her again.

“These business associates whom you mentioned, they do not know anything about him?” Alice inquired.

“Unfortunately they do not have his address either,” said Holmes. “We hoped that we would be able to contact him through you. We need him to confirm a few things.”

“I cannot help you with that,” said Lady Darringford, wiping away the tears that were running down her round cheeks. “Rupert’s whereabouts are just as much a mystery to me as they are to you.”

We had accomplished the task for which we had come. I was disappointed that we no longer had a reason to remain in the presence of this gentle creature, but on the other hand it was also a kind of liberation. Were I to remain longer in her company I might not be able to control my infatuation.

“Allow me to ask one last question,” said Holmes as we were leaving. “Has your brother ever mentioned the names Minutti or Bollinger?”

“The first of these is unfamiliar to me,” said the lady, searching her memory. “By the second do you mean Albert Bollinger? Everyone knows that his sister, Emily, is my good friend. He was last in this house as a guest together with his sister a few weeks ago. Why?”

“I think that your brother came into contact with them recently.”

“But Emily certainly would have told me! You must be mistaken.”

The detective bowed his head and kissed her on the hand. I must admit that I was slightly jealous; it seemed to me that his lips lingered on the smooth skin of her white hand longer than was strictly necessary. But I immediately expelled such nonsense from my head and chided myself for it. I was acting like a smitten schoolboy.

On the way back to London Holmes was again wrapped in silence, nor was I in the mood to discuss our case. Neither did it surprise me when he perfunctorily asked the coachman to stop on Victoria Street and got out without a word. He only mumbled something about having to stop somewhere due to Miss Pankhurst and that he would only return late in the evening.

Then it was true: his imagination had been captivated by the Pankhurst girl. Well, you can’t argue about taste, I said to myself, and drove home.

But the real fun was about to start.

I changed into a housecoat, lit the fireplace, poured myself a glass of whiskey and settled into my favourite armchair. I had a lot of paperwork to do in connection with my clinic, which was now being overseen by a medical student. I had not gotten any work done since Holmes’s coronary and now seemed like an opportune moment to catch up.

I worked until night fell and the streetlamps came on. At that point the paperwork began to bore me. I put it aside, took up a magazine, and promptly dozed off.

Around nine o’clock I was awoken by the doorbell.

It occurred to me that it must be Holmes. Our housekeeper was on holiday during my wife’s absence, so I got up to open the door for my companion.

But instead of the detective I found Alice Darringford.

“Has something happened?” I said with surprise.

“Forgive me for disturbing you at such an hour, but I did not know where else to go,” she whispered.

She seemed disturbed. Her eyes gazed wildly from side to side and she was trembling all over.

I could not leave her standing at the doorway. A female visitor while my wife was away would certainly attract a great deal of attention in our street full of curious eyes. But I did not want to turn her away. I apologised for my informal attire and invited her in.

I directed her to the drawing room and bid her sit on a comfortable sofa at the fireplace.

“From the moment when you left yesterday afternoon I cannot rid myself of these feelings,” she whispered, wringing her hands nervously. “I must always think of my brother. Mr Parker’s questions upset me greatly.”

“I understand,” I said nodding, and sat down next to her.

Having her near me, so defenceless and seeking comfort, made my heart beat furiously. My mouth was dry and I had to drink some water in order to be able to speak.

“It occurred to me that as a doctor you could give me something to calm my nerves,” she continued. “My personal doctor is away on holiday and I would rather not share my family problems with a complete stranger.”

“Of course, I am glad to be of service!” I assured her.

I brought her a calming pill from my medical bag and placed it in her open palm.

She looked at me thankfully with her large eyes, which shone in the light of the fire. Then she blinked and turned away from the light.

“Forgive me, my head is pounding,” she said, putting the back of her hand on her forehead.

I immediately dimmed the lamps.

“Is that better?”

“Yes,” she said, sighing.

The room was immersed in romantic shadows. Everything was right for me to reveal my feelings to her.

But I remained steadfast. In spite of her beauty I would not threaten my marriage to satisfy short-term lust. In the depths of my soul I knew that my infatuation was nothing more than that.

But Lady Darringford chose to ignore my official union. She suddenly turned towards me and passionately kissed me!

Instinctively I returned her embrace.