ROSEBUD PARK
It was a chilly autumn evening in late 1887. The gaslights in the street blinked their way through the fog and the breath of the cab horses steamed as they stomped and snorted in the biting cold. In our rooms in Baker Street, Holmes and I sat on either side of a blazing fire in our cosy armchairs, drank coffee and discussed the world in general. It had been a quiet time lately, Holmes had by now well recovered from his illness of that April, and nothing much was happening, save that affair of the Cunninghams and their murdered coachman, in the spring.
Suddenly our conversation was interrupted by a ring at the bell.
"That's odd, Watson," remarked my companion. "Why should she require our services at this hour? Surely her problem could hold out until morning."
"You say 'she' Holmes, you know who our visitor is?" I asked.
"My dear fellow, I have as little idea as you, save that it is a young woman, and in quite a nervous state from her pull on the bell," replied Holmes.
At this point the sitting-room door opened, casting a chink of bright light from the hallway, to fall on the mantelpiece. Mrs Hudson popped her head around the door.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, gentlemen, but there is a young lady at the door. She insists that she must see you Mr Holmes. She is very worked up about something or other."
"Then pray show her in, Mrs Hudson, it won't do to keep worried young ladies standing on doorsteps on a night like this," smiled Holmes, and Mrs Hudson disappeared back down the stairs.
In a few moments, she returned, and by her side was what must have been one of the most exquisite and captivating women ever to grace our humble apartment.
Her long, luxurious hair was as black as ebony and pinned in place with a pearl comb. She wore a dress of crimson velvet and black lace, which clung perfectly to her elegant figure. Around her throat, she wore a choker of black velvet ribbon, set with a single pearl. A pair of glorious, bewitching dark eyes flitted from one of us to the other in nervous confusion.
Mrs Hudson announced her. "Miss Kitty Whittacre, sir." She backed out of the door, leaving us alone with our beautiful visitor.
"Please have a seat, madam," Holmes smiled, politely indicating in the direction of the sofa. I could see that, despite his aversion to women, even he had to marvel at her beauty.
"Whatever your problem is, it must be a desperate one for you to call on us at such an hour. Pray, do tell us all about it." He sat back in his chair and pressed his finger-tips together as he so often did when he absorbed vital information.
"I think I should probably begin at the beginning, as that is usually the best place to start," began Miss Whittacre. "I live in a large house in Sussex, my step-brother Rosen lives with me. The house, Rosebud Park, is the most delightful place you could wish for, the grounds are exquisite and the whole house is beautiful. I came to England from southern Spain when I was 19 years old, when my mother re-married, - my father died when I was only four – the whole family took the name of my step-father, Whittacre. As we have only been here seven years, I don't have many old friends around here, let alone enemies. I can't think of anyone who could hate me that much."
"How much?" interrupted Holmes.
"Enough to want me out of the house and far away!"
"Dear me, this tale of yours gets more interesting by the minute! How do you know all this, Miss Whittacre?"
"The letters, Mr Holmes."
"Letters?"
"Yes about a month ago, I received several letters telling me I must leave the house and move far away or suffer the consequences!"
"And you did not recognise the hand in which they were written?" Holmes inquired.
"No Mr Holmes, they were typed."
"Ah! And you still have them?"
"Yes, they are locked away in my room. If you would like to come down
and . . ."
"Marvellous! I was wondering when you would suggest something of the sort! I feel Watson and I should have a look over Rosebud Park and see what could possibly make someone want to force you out! As it is Thursday today, would it be out of the question if we were to come for a weekend? We may need some time."
"Of course!" Her face lit up with an expression of absolute delight. "That would be wonderful! My step-brother is going up to York all weekend, I could use some company!"
"Even better. Your step-brother shan't bother us from York. Very well then, Watson and I will arrive at about midday tomorrow." Holmes smiled and stood up to guide Miss Whittacre to the door. As she glided her way out of the room, she turned.
"Mr Holmes, I can't thank you enough. I've been frightened out of my wits these past weeks. Until tomorrow then, goodbye Mr Holmes, Dr Watson." And with a sweet little smile, she swept out of the room.
The next morning, Sherlock Holmes and myself took a hansom cab to Victoria Station, from where we made our way south to Sussex, Rosebud Park and the delightful Kitty Whittacre!
As our dog-cart rattled its way up to the house, past glorious gardens and elegant fountains, I saw how right Kitty had been. The trees stood on either side of the driveway like soldiers, and a gentle breeze scattered drifts of golden leaves in our path. Beyond the trees, I could make out the wide, expansive lawns, trimmed and tended gardens, stable blocks, and a deep blue lake in the distance. The scenery was certainly idyllic.
When we reached the house, the door was opened by a housemaid, one of those detestable blonde, bubbly sorts who is permanently happy and can never be quiet! As we entered and handed her our coats, we were met by yet another maid, this one as different from the last as possible. There was something distinctly South American about her appearance, her long, straight dark hair and almost black eyes. In fact, she was almost sinister and hardly spoke a word! Kitty herself met us at the top of the stairs and showed us to what would be our rooms for the weekend. She had put two large bedrooms and a luxurious sitting room at our disposal, all decorated in exotic, eastern reds, golds and oranges, with a lot of cushions!
Over the next day or so, Holmes scoured every inch of the house and grounds, looked at the letters and gradually got to know most of the household. But on the Sunday, as we were looking about the ballroom, the most splendid room on the ground floor, we heard the unmistakable sound of a dog-cart coming up the track.
We made our way through to a spot in the corridor where we could hear voices in the hall, but remain hidden, and there we waited. Within a few short minutes, we could hear the gentle tread of Miss Whittacre coming down the stairs. She leant over the rail, halfway down, so as to be able to see through the window who it was. She let out a cry of shocked surprise and fairly flew down the staircase, running straight into one of the maids who was on her way to open the door.
"No!" cried Kitty, "leave it, Impada, go back to your work!" The poor maid was obviously surprised at the way Kitty snapped at her, but she went on with whatever she was doing, and Kitty herself answered the door.
"Rosen! I didn't think you were due back until Tuesday!" she gasped. At the door stood a young man, not more than 24 years of age, tall, with the same dark colouring as Kitty.
"This must be the elusive step-brother," Holmes whispered in my ear, "this could get interesting!" We had no idea just how interesting things were about to get!
"I'll come straight to the point Kitty, I heard from your friend Jezycre this morning, and do you know what she told me? She told me you have engaged a detective to snoop around the place. Would you like to explain why you did that, eh Kitten?
"It's not nice when your own, dear step-sister decides that, rather than confide in you, she would rather go sharing family affairs with strangers! That was a very bad thing to do, sister, and I think for once, the pretty little kitten must be punished!" To my absolute horror, he drew from his side a long, pointed dagger with an intricately carved handle and pounced at her! Her piercing screams would have wakened the dead as they reverberated through the hallways.
In an instant, my friend had sprung from our hiding place and proceeded to leap at the man and knock him safely away from Miss Whittacre. But Rosen Whittacre was not a man to give up easily, and he was soon on his feet again and ran out of the door with Holmes in hot pursuit. I ran to Miss Whittacre's side, and was relieved to find that her injuries were not nearly as bad as they first appeared. Landing badly on the stairs, she had knocked herself out, but as soon as Holmes returned, having caught Rosen and handed him to a policeman who promptly arrived on the scene, we managed to carry her into the lounge and lay her on the sofa to recover.
All the rest of that afternoon, we sat in armchairs in the living room and watched for her to wake up. At about 8 o'clock in the evening, she finally began to stir. Slowly, those glorious dark eyes blinked open, and she looked up at my companion and me.
"At last!" cried Holmes, "I was beginning to fear that you might lie there forever! Do you feel a little better?"
"That would be hard to say, considering that I don't remember how I felt the last time I was awake!" she said, with a watery smile. "All I can tell you is that my head hurts! What's been happening around here?"
Holmes cleared his throat. "There was, ah . . . a little disagreement between you and your step-brother," he began.
"Oh, yes! I remember now, whatever was that about?" Kitty frowned.
I think we had better leave all that to the inspector to explain, as Watson and I really ought to return to London. Goodbye, Kitty, and I wish you a speedy recovery. I shall write in a few days to clear up any questions you may have." He smiled politely and we left the room. The bright, bubbly housemaid handed us our coats and hats, and soon we were on our way back to London.
On the train, Holmes was very quiet and thoughtful, and he didn't say a word about the day's activities until we were back in Baker Street, in our cosy little sitting room, in front of the blazing fire once more. As we sat over a glass of whisky, he began to explain.
"As soon as I heard the cart in the driveway, I knew at once that it would be the step-brother. You remember, Watson, how the notes were typed? Well, as we looked over the house, I discovered a typewriter in one of the rooms. The print of one typewriter is as different from the others as are two examples of handwriting, to an expert. The letters then, were written from the house.
"Before we arrived there, I got hold of a copy of Kitty's late father's will, and, to no great surprise of mine, I found that, should Kitty die or move away from Rosebud Park, the whole place and a large sum of money with it would become the property of a Mr Rosen Whittacre! It was of course he who wrote the letters, in an attempt to remove his sister and claim the house as his own. When this failed, he turned to more drastic measures. Luckily, we were in the right place at the right time and so prevented the murder of one Miss Kitty Whittacre." He leaned back in his chair and lit his pipe.
"Bravo, Holmes you've done it again!" I cried.
"Well," smiled Sherlock Holmes, "one does one's best!"
It was a chilly autumn evening in late 1887. The gaslights in the street blinked their way through the fog and the breath of the cab horses steamed as they stomped and snorted in the biting cold. In our rooms in Baker Street, Holmes and I sat on either side of a blazing fire in our cosy armchairs, drank coffee and discussed the world in general. It had been a quiet time lately, Holmes had by now well recovered from his illness of that April, and nothing much was happening, save that affair of the Cunninghams and their murdered coachman, in the spring.
Suddenly our conversation was interrupted by a ring at the bell.
"That's odd, Watson," remarked my companion. "Why should she require our services at this hour? Surely her problem could hold out until morning."
"You say 'she' Holmes, you know who our visitor is?" I asked.
"My dear fellow, I have as little idea as you, save that it is a young woman, and in quite a nervous state from her pull on the bell," replied Holmes.
At this point the sitting-room door opened, casting a chink of bright light from the hallway, to fall on the mantelpiece. Mrs Hudson popped her head around the door.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, gentlemen, but there is a young lady at the door. She insists that she must see you Mr Holmes. She is very worked up about something or other."
"Then pray show her in, Mrs Hudson, it won't do to keep worried young ladies standing on doorsteps on a night like this," smiled Holmes, and Mrs Hudson disappeared back down the stairs.
In a few moments, she returned, and by her side was what must have been one of the most exquisite and captivating women ever to grace our humble apartment.
Her long, luxurious hair was as black as ebony and pinned in place with a pearl comb. She wore a dress of crimson velvet and black lace, which clung perfectly to her elegant figure. Around her throat, she wore a choker of black velvet ribbon, set with a single pearl. A pair of glorious, bewitching dark eyes flitted from one of us to the other in nervous confusion.
Mrs Hudson announced her. "Miss Kitty Whittacre, sir." She backed out of the door, leaving us alone with our beautiful visitor.
"Please have a seat, madam," Holmes smiled, politely indicating in the direction of the sofa. I could see that, despite his aversion to women, even he had to marvel at her beauty.
"Whatever your problem is, it must be a desperate one for you to call on us at such an hour. Pray, do tell us all about it." He sat back in his chair and pressed his finger-tips together as he so often did when he absorbed vital information.
"I think I should probably begin at the beginning, as that is usually the best place to start," began Miss Whittacre. "I live in a large house in Sussex, my step-brother Rosen lives with me. The house, Rosebud Park, is the most delightful place you could wish for, the grounds are exquisite and the whole house is beautiful. I came to England from southern Spain when I was 19 years old, when my mother re-married, - my father died when I was only four – the whole family took the name of my step-father, Whittacre. As we have only been here seven years, I don't have many old friends around here, let alone enemies. I can't think of anyone who could hate me that much."
"How much?" interrupted Holmes.
"Enough to want me out of the house and far away!"
"Dear me, this tale of yours gets more interesting by the minute! How do you know all this, Miss Whittacre?"
"The letters, Mr Holmes."
"Letters?"
"Yes about a month ago, I received several letters telling me I must leave the house and move far away or suffer the consequences!"
"And you did not recognise the hand in which they were written?" Holmes inquired.
"No Mr Holmes, they were typed."
"Ah! And you still have them?"
"Yes, they are locked away in my room. If you would like to come down
and . . ."
"Marvellous! I was wondering when you would suggest something of the sort! I feel Watson and I should have a look over Rosebud Park and see what could possibly make someone want to force you out! As it is Thursday today, would it be out of the question if we were to come for a weekend? We may need some time."
"Of course!" Her face lit up with an expression of absolute delight. "That would be wonderful! My step-brother is going up to York all weekend, I could use some company!"
"Even better. Your step-brother shan't bother us from York. Very well then, Watson and I will arrive at about midday tomorrow." Holmes smiled and stood up to guide Miss Whittacre to the door. As she glided her way out of the room, she turned.
"Mr Holmes, I can't thank you enough. I've been frightened out of my wits these past weeks. Until tomorrow then, goodbye Mr Holmes, Dr Watson." And with a sweet little smile, she swept out of the room.
The next morning, Sherlock Holmes and myself took a hansom cab to Victoria Station, from where we made our way south to Sussex, Rosebud Park and the delightful Kitty Whittacre!
As our dog-cart rattled its way up to the house, past glorious gardens and elegant fountains, I saw how right Kitty had been. The trees stood on either side of the driveway like soldiers, and a gentle breeze scattered drifts of golden leaves in our path. Beyond the trees, I could make out the wide, expansive lawns, trimmed and tended gardens, stable blocks, and a deep blue lake in the distance. The scenery was certainly idyllic.
When we reached the house, the door was opened by a housemaid, one of those detestable blonde, bubbly sorts who is permanently happy and can never be quiet! As we entered and handed her our coats, we were met by yet another maid, this one as different from the last as possible. There was something distinctly South American about her appearance, her long, straight dark hair and almost black eyes. In fact, she was almost sinister and hardly spoke a word! Kitty herself met us at the top of the stairs and showed us to what would be our rooms for the weekend. She had put two large bedrooms and a luxurious sitting room at our disposal, all decorated in exotic, eastern reds, golds and oranges, with a lot of cushions!
Over the next day or so, Holmes scoured every inch of the house and grounds, looked at the letters and gradually got to know most of the household. But on the Sunday, as we were looking about the ballroom, the most splendid room on the ground floor, we heard the unmistakable sound of a dog-cart coming up the track.
We made our way through to a spot in the corridor where we could hear voices in the hall, but remain hidden, and there we waited. Within a few short minutes, we could hear the gentle tread of Miss Whittacre coming down the stairs. She leant over the rail, halfway down, so as to be able to see through the window who it was. She let out a cry of shocked surprise and fairly flew down the staircase, running straight into one of the maids who was on her way to open the door.
"No!" cried Kitty, "leave it, Impada, go back to your work!" The poor maid was obviously surprised at the way Kitty snapped at her, but she went on with whatever she was doing, and Kitty herself answered the door.
"Rosen! I didn't think you were due back until Tuesday!" she gasped. At the door stood a young man, not more than 24 years of age, tall, with the same dark colouring as Kitty.
"This must be the elusive step-brother," Holmes whispered in my ear, "this could get interesting!" We had no idea just how interesting things were about to get!
"I'll come straight to the point Kitty, I heard from your friend Jezycre this morning, and do you know what she told me? She told me you have engaged a detective to snoop around the place. Would you like to explain why you did that, eh Kitten?
"It's not nice when your own, dear step-sister decides that, rather than confide in you, she would rather go sharing family affairs with strangers! That was a very bad thing to do, sister, and I think for once, the pretty little kitten must be punished!" To my absolute horror, he drew from his side a long, pointed dagger with an intricately carved handle and pounced at her! Her piercing screams would have wakened the dead as they reverberated through the hallways.
In an instant, my friend had sprung from our hiding place and proceeded to leap at the man and knock him safely away from Miss Whittacre. But Rosen Whittacre was not a man to give up easily, and he was soon on his feet again and ran out of the door with Holmes in hot pursuit. I ran to Miss Whittacre's side, and was relieved to find that her injuries were not nearly as bad as they first appeared. Landing badly on the stairs, she had knocked herself out, but as soon as Holmes returned, having caught Rosen and handed him to a policeman who promptly arrived on the scene, we managed to carry her into the lounge and lay her on the sofa to recover.
All the rest of that afternoon, we sat in armchairs in the living room and watched for her to wake up. At about 8 o'clock in the evening, she finally began to stir. Slowly, those glorious dark eyes blinked open, and she looked up at my companion and me.
"At last!" cried Holmes, "I was beginning to fear that you might lie there forever! Do you feel a little better?"
"That would be hard to say, considering that I don't remember how I felt the last time I was awake!" she said, with a watery smile. "All I can tell you is that my head hurts! What's been happening around here?"
Holmes cleared his throat. "There was, ah . . . a little disagreement between you and your step-brother," he began.
"Oh, yes! I remember now, whatever was that about?" Kitty frowned.
I think we had better leave all that to the inspector to explain, as Watson and I really ought to return to London. Goodbye, Kitty, and I wish you a speedy recovery. I shall write in a few days to clear up any questions you may have." He smiled politely and we left the room. The bright, bubbly housemaid handed us our coats and hats, and soon we were on our way back to London.
On the train, Holmes was very quiet and thoughtful, and he didn't say a word about the day's activities until we were back in Baker Street, in our cosy little sitting room, in front of the blazing fire once more. As we sat over a glass of whisky, he began to explain.
"As soon as I heard the cart in the driveway, I knew at once that it would be the step-brother. You remember, Watson, how the notes were typed? Well, as we looked over the house, I discovered a typewriter in one of the rooms. The print of one typewriter is as different from the others as are two examples of handwriting, to an expert. The letters then, were written from the house.
"Before we arrived there, I got hold of a copy of Kitty's late father's will, and, to no great surprise of mine, I found that, should Kitty die or move away from Rosebud Park, the whole place and a large sum of money with it would become the property of a Mr Rosen Whittacre! It was of course he who wrote the letters, in an attempt to remove his sister and claim the house as his own. When this failed, he turned to more drastic measures. Luckily, we were in the right place at the right time and so prevented the murder of one Miss Kitty Whittacre." He leaned back in his chair and lit his pipe.
"Bravo, Holmes you've done it again!" I cried.
"Well," smiled Sherlock Holmes, "one does one's best!"