Mr Sherlock Holmes, throughout his life, maintained his aversion to women, or so he would have us believe. "The fairer sex," he once remarked, "are ridiculous creatures, all of emotion, and of no logic." One woman, however, besides the infamous Irene Adler Norton, who had so troubled the King of Bohemia, disproved his rule. I shall not relate the exact date I met this extraordinary woman, for Holmes made me promise not to make public these few accounts until all involved were deceased, including himself, who died peacefully some months ago at his bee-keeping estate in the South Downs of Sussex. His reason for this request I shall explain partially in this and other accounts.
One spring, my wife took a vacation to France to visit a friend of her family. I took full advantage of this opportunity to stay with Holmes in my old rooms at 221B Baker Street. I entered the sitting-room on this fateful day, following my morning shave, to find Holmes returning his cocaine bottle to its place on the mantel, and placing his syringe in its morocco case, which he locked in his desk drawer. As he rolled down his sleeve, I shot him a disapproving glare.
"It is not as often as before, Watson" said he, eyes cast downward, apparently avoiding mine. "You have seen to that. I now only partake when cases are sparse: not a client in the last fortnight!"
"I still do not condone it!" I clamored.
"I know, my good fellow," said he with a stretch, "but I lack intellectual stimulation. Criminal cases are a vast ocean, and we, my dear Watson, are in dry dock!"
"The tide shall soon come in, old chap," said I, trying to soothe his broken spirit. When Holmes was in such a state as this -- exhausted by the lack of cases, ironically: work did not tire him, yet the absence of employment had that effect -- only something of great import could rouse him. It became quite a vicious cycle. Holmes lit his oily, black clay pipe and, with an exasperated sigh, retreated into the depths of his armchair. My friend closed his eyes, drew up his knees, and began to smoke. I helped myself to a cigar and joined him, settling in my usual place. I too was depressed by the lack of cases. I had so hoped to join Holmes in some adventurous chase. When Mrs. Hudson entered, neither of us stirred.
"There is a lady to see you, Mr. Holmes."
"Did she present her card?" he inquired.
"No," the housekeeper replied tersely.
"Her name?" Sherlock Holmes queried.
"She did not say."
"Really, Mrs. Hudson, you must learn to be more pressing in your interviews. Send her in."
"Hmph," the housekeeper replied as she spun on her heel and left the room.
I stood, but there was no reaction from Holmes when the woman entered. I had expected him to offer some sort of salutation. To my surprise, it was she who spoke first.
"It is a three-pipe problem, Sherlock?"
This question cause a broad smile to spread across my friend's face like a fire burning out of control. His head, which had been lying on his breast, jerked up and he uttered one word.
"Emily," he whispered, and with what seemed one bound, was at the door. "Halloa! Quite the contrary, my dear sister!"
Holmes' exclamation gave me quite a shock. I had accepted his reticence in all personal matters as one of his many eccentricities. Learning of the existence of Mycroft Holmes was disturbing enough. I had no indication that Holmes had a female sibling. She was the exact feminine counterpart of Holmes in every way: she was almost as tall and as thin as he with the same sharp, piercing grey eyes and the same high-bridged, aquiline nose, though hers was more feminine than his.
"This, I perceive," said she regarding me, "is your friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. Tell me, Doctor, is it your usual custom to continue to practice medicine when you visit Sherlock?" I was astounded, although I should have been accustomed to "being deduced" by that time. Holmes had an annoying habit of answering my thoughts rather than my words and, as I was soon to learn, so did this Emily. I was about to ask her how she knew.
"It is all quite simple, doctor," said she. "You were not consulting with Sherlock, so you are evidently an acquaintance. The dark stains on your hands were caused by the nitrate of silver, which narrows your occupation to that of an apothecary, a scientist, or a doctor. Your medical bag is displayed on the desk in the corner; therefore you are a doctor. The callus on your right middle finger and the worn patches on your coatsleeves show that you do quite a bit of writing, more than is required to prescribe medication. You are a writer, a doctor, and a friend of Sherlock: who but Dr. Watson? I observed your suitcase just inside the door in the next room which indicates an extended stay, and your medical bag confirms that you are continuing to practice during your visit, unless of course Sherlock were ill. Except for his occasional use of the seven percent solution, however, he is in the best of health." Holmes cast his eyes down shamefully.
"How do you know the suitcase is mine?" I asked.
"The monogram -- JHW: John Hamish Watson, I believe?"
"Holmes," said I, "I didn't know you had a sister."
"I haven't," he replied. "Emily is no relation to me save in the art of noticing those little details that others do not. Emily, this, as you could not help concluding, is my companion and scribe, Dr. Watson. Watson, this is Miss Emily Chrane, my 'sister in Deduction,' and my dearest childhood friend."
"Oh, I see," said I, "you taught her all you know regarding Deduction." Both laughed heartily as a result of my remark. "I do not see anything comical in that," I retorted.
"Watson, you merely do not have all the facts. It was she who taught me."
"I thought you said your faculty for Deduction was inherited," I protested. "Otherwise, your brother would not also posses it."
"Observation is in our blood," he continued. "Deduction is not. Emily instructed us as to how to utilize our abilities."
"Although I am indebted to Sherlock and Mycroft for the majority of my education, theirs in the art of Deduction they owe to me. Mycroft was a better pupil, but lacked the energy to become a great detective, which you, my dear Sherlock have already become. I hear that you have apprehended John Clay and returned the Blue Carbuncle to the Countess of Morcar."
Holmes bowed. "My dear Emily, it is most fortunate that you came to visit now. Watson came while his wife was away to assist me in my work. Alas, there is no work in which he can assist. Your presence, along with his, may just see me safely through this bout of boredom."
"You have no cases?" she marveled.
"None," he replied, deflatedly, sinking once again into his chair.
"Then I may just have something that will interest you. My superiors suggested that I take a mandatory 'holiday.' It was ill-timed, for I was about to close my nets around a piece of heavy game I have been tracking for some time."
"Marvelous, my dear!" said Holmes, sitting up and rubbing his hands together in unconcealed glee. "What are the particulars?"
"Two of the residents of the Edinburgh Orphanage," said she, "a Roger Smith and a Christopher McGlynn, were reported missing from the establishment. Both were subsequently found dead of strangulation -- without their fingers. The police have gotten no further than retrieving the bodies and being perplexed. Now then, Sherlock: the game is afoot. Do you want to play?"
"I wouldn't miss it for the world!" he chimed. "Watson, are you interested?"
"By all means!" said I, emphatically.
"We have but half an hour to catch the next express to Scotland," said Miss Chrane. "I suggest we leave immediately. Doctor, you may wish to bring that notebook of yours to write another of your illustrious accounts."
"And perhaps your army revolver," Holmes added.
On the train to Scotland, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Miss Emily Chrane chatted away about their lives since their last meeting. In fact, I had never seen Holmes in quite such a garrulous disposition. Whoever this lady was, she had a decidedly pleasant effect on my friend, and I only hoped that I would see Holmes in this state more often. During the journey, I learned a great deal about this singular, exceptional woman. Holmes and his brother had tutored her as a girl, expanding her limited grammar school education. She had enrolled at Oxford and graduated first in her class, earning a degree in criminology. She had, in addition, earned several degrees, in chemistry, forensic medicine, physics and many mathematical branches, in post-graduate studies at Edinburgh University. She was, at the time we met, employed as an investigator with the Edinburgh Coroner's Office.
"I've studied your monograph on cigars and cigar ash, Sherlock," she proclaimed. "I must say, it came in quite handy recently."
"I am glad you found it useful, my dear," Holmes replied. "I read yours on new applications for dogs in police work. Most enlightening."
"Wait a moment," said I, "I read that one also. The author was listed as 'E. George Chrane.' Is that you?"
"Yes, Doctor. I use that pseudonym because otherwise I could not make any of my work available to my colleagues. Monographs authored by women in the field of Deduction are simply not published."
"What a shame," said I sympathetically. "The world is missing out, I'm sure. Holmes, some of your posts are from that pseudonym, and they looked to be written in Chinese."
"It is Japanese, Watson. The Japanese hiragana hieroglyphs are more rounded than the Chinese kanji, which are squared and more intricate."
"Thank you for that fascinating distinction, Holmes, but I am more interested in why."
"It is our own special code, Watson. You may have also noticed that those posts were addressed to 'William S. Holmes,' yet only my mother ever called me William, and that was only when she was displeased with me. Emily and I set this up early in our careers so that, if either of us were in a desperate situation, he or she could ask for help without putting the other in unnecessary danger. To guard against busybodies," said he, smiling, "our normal correspondence is written in Japanese. If I ever receive a letter from 'Miss Emily Chrane' to 'Mr. Sherlock Holmes' in plain English, I would know instantly that Emily needed my help, and I would go to her. Or if the situation were reversed, she would aid me. So far in our work, this system has not been called into use by necessity. Should the need arise, like an eager actor, it is waiting in the wings." This is one reason why Holmes asked that I not publish these accounts, so as not to expose this and other secrets, while they were living.
Upon arriving in Edinburgh, Miss Chrane decided that she would take us to the morgue to view the two victims. "This is Roger Smith," she said as she pulled back the sheet on the boy's right hand only. "What do you make of that, Doctor?"
I examined the hand closely. "The digits were chopped off in one stoke with an extremely sharp instrument."
"How can you tell that, Watson?" Holmes asked.
"The cut is a straight, blunt cut. The forefinger and little finger are separated exactly where the knuckle joins the finger. It is almost surgically precise. The weapon has nicked the joint of the two middle fingers because they protrude a little further forward. So, therefore, it was done in one stroke."
"Very good, Doctor. All the other fingers were severed in much the same way," Miss Chrane answered. "Your reports of his abilities were not exaggerated, Sherlock." At his point, I began to feel a little unwell. Even though I had often dealt with post-mortem adults, mutilated children were new to me. Perhaps it was the smell of the morgue, or the fact that we had departed from Baker Street in such haste that I had not breakfasted. "The doctor is turning a little green. There is nothing more of importance to be seen here, so perhaps we should leave now?"
"What do you make of it all, Sherlock?"
"Not as much as you do, apparently."
"I do have the advantage of familiarity with the case."
"What sort of extremely sharp instrument do you suppose? An axe or hatchet?" Holmes inquired.
"Too unwieldy for such delicate work," said Miss Chrane, "and probably not sharp enough. I do not, at present, have enough data yet to confirm or disprove it, but I suspect that it was a cleaver."
"The murderer seems quite serious about harvesting only the fingers," said I. "I wonder why."
"Insane murderers often remove a trophy of some sort," asserted Holmes.
"Would not only one finger have sufficed for such a trophy?" Miss Chrane asked. "Why eight per victim? The mutilation was not for a trophy, but something more sinister. Halloa, what's this?" Miss Chrane asked, looking out the window of our foul-wheeler at a crowd in the park. It was abuzz with police activity. "Stop here, please, driver!" As we drew near the crowd assembled under a tall oak on the eastern edge of the park, a lanky gentleman stepped from the group and addressed Miss Chrane.
"You are supposed to be on holiday!" said he in a heavy Highland brogue.
"I am, Inspector MacDougall," Miss Chrane answered with feigned innocence. "I went to London to visit my good friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and when I told him of this case, I simply could not keep him away. You've found another body? Same conditions as the others, I surmise?" The inspector nodded to both questions, and Miss Chrane continued. "Well, I'm sure Mr. Holmes would like to see the third child, a girl I presume, for you seem more upset on this occasion. Dr. Watson may be of some assistance in the examination," she continued, as MacDougall led us to the midst of the crowd.
Lying directly under the oak was a bloated little body. She might have been a lovely girl, had her face not been twisted in such a grimace of pain, and had her hands not been digitless. My previous nausea resurged in full force, and the sight caused me to swoon. Holmes caught me and pulled me from the crowd. As is characteristic of crowds, the entire group flocked around Holmes and myself. I noticed Miss Chrane bending over the child's body. In my state of delirium, it appeared as if she were pulling a ball of light out of the dead girl. I was swimming in a sea of blurs when I was at last brought back to reality by Holmes' loosening my collar. Finally, he shouted for everyone to clear away and let me breathe, and my surroundings came back into focus.
"Perhaps we had best take Dr. Watson out of the sun." The voice was Miss Chrane's. "My home is but a few streets away." She and Holmes helped me to the street where we boarded our cab.
"Montague Hall, please, cabbie!" Miss Chrane called as we boarded. "Are you feeling better, Doctor?" she asked me. When I didn't answer immediately, she spoke to Holmes. "Sherlock, perhaps you should give him a sip of your brandy." Holmes looked surprised momentarily, then smiled and produced his flask. I drank from it briefly.
"I am much better, thank you," said I. "I should have eaten something this morning."
"Watson is not so immune to the need of food as you and I, Emily," said Holmes.
"This may sound odd to you, Doctor, but I'm rather glad you felt faint," she commented.
"You are absolutely correct," said I. "It sounds profoundly odd!"
"I did not mean it to be cruel. You became the center of attention, and that allowed me the opportunity, unobserved, to retrieve this." She pulled from her purse a locket on a long, golden chain.
"But you were observed!" I exclaimed.
"By whom?" she cried, distressed.
"By me," I stated, and with a slight chuckle, "but I thought I was delirious."
"Oh, you had me worried," she sighed. "I thought you meant by someone who could make trouble for me with my superiors."
"So, our little diversion worked," Holmes added.
I was quite put out. "Holmes, you were in on this as well?" I pouted.
"Watson, with one glance, I knew that Emily intended to search the body, with or without 'official' police permission. Your fainting spell afforded us the perfect distraction. You know my taste for all that is theatrical. Emily shares that trait. Knowing that the crowd would be engrossed in the drama, I played it up. I even thought for half a heartbeat that you were acting, as well. Medical men are not normally given to fits of fainting. Your timing was exquisite." I frowned, and his expression softened. "My dear fellow, even though my reaction may have been staged, you must know that my concern was genuine." I was somewhat placated by this sincere though rare show of affection from my puzzling friend.
"Well, if nothing else," Miss Chrane shrugged, "at least you weren't delirious . . . not completely." She handed the locket to Holmes and myself for inspection.
It was a beautiful piece of jewelry. It had a crest on the front that was a rampant lion with a sapphire for an eye, entwined in twists of ivy. "It looks to be new," said I.
"Not new, Watson," Holmes added, "but not exceptionally old either, and well maintained. Since it is not a costly piece of jewelry, this would suggest that the owner attached a great sentimental value to it. Owned by a nervous woman, for she has rubbed away most of the design on the back." He showed me the rear of the piece of jewelry, then returned to the face as he said, "However, the crest on the front looks untouched and quite new. The chain, as you can see, has been recently repaired. These three links," said he, pointing them out to me, "are newer than the rest."
"The crest belongs to the Montague family. They are a prestigious lot, quite aware of their noble lineage. I have made an in-depth study of their family history. The matriarch is Lady Beatrice Camerick, to whom I am certain the locket belongs. I believe it was a gift from her late husband."
"Let's follow this thread while we have it," I interjected. "Since I am feeling better, there is no need to go to your home at the present."
"We were not anyhow," said she with a mischievous grin. Holmes, I noticed, wore a similar impish expression. "I took it for granted that you would recover swiftly," she continued, "and instructed the driver to go not to my home, but to Montague Hall, the home of Lady Camerick."
We arrived at Montague Hall at half past one, and were shown into the drawing room. Over the mantelpiece was a larger replica of the crest on the locket. There was someone else waiting there also -- a tall, elegant woman -- but not the lady of the manor. The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Armstrong, and explained that she was an employment agent who had supplied two of the servants of the household, Randal and Aileen McNeely, who had disappeared the night before.
"The servants have explained her ladyship's habits to me," she proclaimed, "so I shall relay them to you. Lady Camerick leaves every Friday morning to visit a friend in Yorkshire. She returns Friday afternoon at precisely two. I have brought her the names of several prospective employees. I can scarcely believe that the McNeelys have disappeared," she confided. "They were lucky to receive such an appointment as this, and then to run off without notice or a reference."
"Were they not a respectable couple?" I asked.
"Hardly, but her ladyship hand-picked them. I tried to emphasize to her that the McNeelys were not considered reliable, but she wanted them in particular to work for her. She would have it no other way."
"Thank you for being so candid, Mrs. Armstrong," Miss Chrane said. She turned to Holmes and myself. "I believe in the interim before her ladyship's return, we should question the remainder of the servants."
"Were the McNeelys in the habit of going out or staying out until late hours?" Miss Chrane began. The housekeeper, Mrs. Wallace, acted as spokesman for the group.
"Almost every night and, I must say I did not approve, nor did her ladyship. They would gallivant to the nearest public house and drink all they could afford. They would then boisterously announce their return, waking everyone." The other servants nodded in assent.
"If Lady Camerick did not approve of their actions," I asked "why did she not dismiss them?"
"She believed that we should allow them some license, as long as they saw to their duties, because it would take time for them to learn to live more respectably. We were to teach them by example, she insisted. They took, in my humble opinion, sore advantage of her kindness."
"Had their manner or duties changed in the last few days?" Holmes inquired.
"Yes sir," she replied. "They would stay out until the wee hours as before, but when they came in, they were trying to be quiet for some reason. And her ladyship had them prepare and serve her late dinners."
"I was not even allowed in the kitchen after cleaning up from lunch," the cook confirmed, "not until it was time to prepare breakfast."
"If before they woke everyone before because of the noise," I commented, "how is it that you heard them when they were trying to be quiet?"
"Excellent, Watson!" Holmes interjected.
"I had not been sleeping well for the last few weeks, sir," the maid answered. "Insomnia, they call it. The cook had stayed up with me for the last three nights to keep me company. I heard something one night, but it didn't make sense."
"What was that?" Miss Chrane asked.
"It sounded like a small child crying, and later I heard the McNeelys arguing."
"Did you hear what they said?"
"I heard her say 'I just don't like it, Randal.' And then he said, 'Well, I don't care of you don't like it. We're in this now, and we ain't gonna ruin things for the old lady by squealin'. Not yet, anyhow.' "
Miss Chrane's eyebrow rose an almost imperceptible amount. "Yes ... well, thank you all for your cooperation," she said, and the servants turned to resume their duties. "One last thing -- did Lady Camerick entrust a piece of jewelry to one of the McNeelys?"
The housekeeper started. "Yes, as a matter of fact. Mrs. McNeely was taking her favorite locket to a jewelry shop in the city to be repaired."
"Thank you. That should conclude our questioning," Miss Chrane said distractedly as she started to scribble a note. "Mrs. Wallace, would you see that this is delivered to Inspector MacDougall at Police Headquarters urgently." The housekeeper nodded. Miss Chrane then turned to the maid. "Would you be so good as to fetch us a lamp and show us to the cellar?" The maid disappeared, rejoined us momentarily with the light, and led us to cellar steps. Holmes lit the lamp, and we three began to descend the stairs.
The door had a tricky catch, and I was afraid we would have been locked in, had Miss Chrane not caught the door and propped it open. The cellar itself was cluttered and musty. We worked our way around dusty shelves full of ancient volumes and trinkets. Holmes' peering eyes darted all around the room in the low light, while Miss Chrane, at the periphery of the circle of light, rummaged through shelves and boxes. Suddenly she shouted.
"Halloa! What's this? Sherlock, bring the light!" She pulled from the box a cloth doll. "There have been no children in this house for forty years, and any doll left here would have since deteriorated." She turned the doll over, and read the embroidery on its underside. "Just as I suspected: 'Eliza Webb, Edinburgh Orphanage'. Let us see what other treasures this chest contains." She removed two overcoats that had the boys' names sewn in them. "This should be enough evidence. Now we have her!"
" 'Her'? " I asked. "Don't you mean 'them'?"
"The McNeelys are only accomplices, Doctor. We'll deal with them soon enough, but her ladyship is our immediate quarry!" Miss Chrane exclaimed as she galloped up the stairs.
We entered the drawing room at the stroke of two. Outside the French windows, I noticed a carriage bearing the same crest, out of which stepped an elderly woman with an air of dignity. She soon entered the Hall. The maid announced our presence and that of Mrs. Armstrong, as Lady Camerick entered the room.
"Thank you, Mary. That will be all." The maid curtseyed and closed the door behind her. "Mrs. Armstrong, thank you for coming. I shall be with you in a few moments. Miss Chrane, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson? Despite the fact that you have harassed my servants and violated my home, for which I do want an explanation, I am glad that you are here. I should prefer to have the police present, but I do I wish to report a robbery."
"A sapphire of that size should have been on deposit with a bank," Miss Chrane advised, "not hidden in your home." Her indignation only heightened with this statement. She scowled her reply. "If your ladyship would like an explanation, the best one that I can offer you that we shall be detaining you until the police arrive."
"This is an outrage!" Lady Camerick hissed. "On what charge?"
"On the charge of the willful murder of Roger Smith, Christopher McGlynn, and Eliza Webb of the Edinburgh Orphanage."
The woman screamed and clasped her chest. She stumbled towards a chair, yet fell to the ground. I rushed to her side and felt for a pulse, but my search was in vain: there was none. "She is dead," I said at last.
"Justice, therefore, hath served itself," Emily Chrane muttered expressionless. Mrs. Armstrong, who had been totally ignorant of the particulars of the whole horrid affair, fainted dead away. Holmes caught her, and laid her gingerly in a nearby chair.
"Are the McNeelys in custody, Inspector?" Miss Chrane asked when the inspector arrived half an hour later.
"Yes," he replied. "They came to us, just as you said they would, and they were in possession of a rather large gem. They most likely did not stop to think that they might soon be facing the gallows themselves. They probably wouldn't be, if it weren't for you." Miss Chrane gave a theatric bow. "How did you know they would come to us?"
"They were waiting until they had uncovered the prized sapphire of the Montague line before implicating their, now late, employer. They had obviously found it, hence their recent disappearance. If they had taken the time to return her ladyship's locket before their flight, I might not have been able to trace them here. The time had come for them to carry out their own plans, in an attempt to exonerate themselves from their guilty consciences." The inspector looked quizzically at her. "The facts are elementary, Inspector: Lady Camerick had her servants abduct, strangle, and mutilate the children." Mrs. Armstrong had begun to regain some measure of consciousness, but at this remark, with a groan, she fainted again. "She is entirely too emotional," Emily Chrane said flatly as we left.
On the return journey to London, we three discussed the case. "Deductive reasoning," Miss Chrane began, "does have its limitations. It can reasonably detect and order facts, and it can anticipate emotions -- the human equation, as Sherlock calls it -- yet, its main culpa is that it cannot foresee the workings of the lunatic mind."
"So the conclusion that Lady Camerick was involved," said I, "was just a guess on your part."
"Never accuse me of relying on mere conjecture, Doctor!" she snapped, obviously offended. "The fact that her locket was lying by the girl's body could not be a coincidence. The odds against it are infinitely high. Besides, I have told you that I had made a study of her family: Lady Camerick had a terrible experience in her past.
"She was the Honourable Beatrice Montague before her marriage to Lord Camerick. Upon the death of her husband, she left Camerick Castle in Glasgow to the care of her oldest son, the present Lord Camerick, and returned to her ancestral home. She was a child there at Montague Hall. The unfortunate incident occurred when her parents went on a trip to the Continent. She and her sister were left in the care of their governess. The woman was a drunkard and incompetent, and left the girls unsupervised for days on end. They accidentally locked themselves in the very cellar we investigated. You saw how easily it could happen, for it almost happened to us. The girls were accustomed to playing in the cellar. When they realized they could not get out, her sister -- a frail, weak-hearted girl -- died from fright and panic. They were discovered a week later, when their parents returned. They found their surviving daughter driven half mad from the experience, and his sister's fingers picked clean of flesh. The poor girl tried to survive by dining on them.
"The Camerick household has long been known for short appointments and frequent dismissals. Lady Camerick had a reputation for hiring people with a past. To the casual observer, it appeared that she was attempting rehabilitate former criminals. When dismissed, they went on their way with an unimpeachable recommendation. Considering the depths to which they had plummeted because of their employer, that would be the least she could do.
"This most recent rash of murders is hardly unique. Over the years in Edinburgh, there have been many disappearing children, and many other discoveries of digitless corpses. Even two fingerless skeletons were fished from Loch Lomond near Glasgow some years ago. Apparently the McNeelys were manipulated into supplying children's fingers for her ladyship's odd tastes, as I have no doubt did the other disreputable servants before them. The McNeelys, however, were resourceful enough to find the famous sapphire. They were no 'butler of Hurlstone,' but they were intelligent enough to search when the lady was out. Lady Camerick feared theft, and removed the jewel from the ancient family crest about the fireplace, replacing it with a replica of blue glass."
"If she feared theft, why did she employ disreputable servants?" I asked.
"It is the converse, Watson," said Holmes. "She feared theft because she employed disreputable servants. Nevertheless, she needed attendants who were desperate for their situations. If they were not, they would not hesitate to inform the authorities. Lady Camerick's 'kind nature,' as the housekeeper put it, was in actuality that of a extortionist, not far removed from the people she employed. One good reference would guarantee respectable employment elsewhere, while the lack thereof would mean almost certain ruin. Her ladyship held all the cards: she had the power to assure that they never worked again."
"The McNeelys were taking a great chance by accusing Lady Camerick. Did they not think that they would also be implicated?" I asked.
"Undoubtedly they knew her ladyship had a weak heart," Miss Chrane answered, "and were relying upon very much the same reaction she had when I accused her. They could see her guilt eating away at her. They were staking their lives on the fact that she would not live long enough to name them as confederates. That sapphire is the size of an egg and is worth a fortune, so I think they were willing to take that risk."
"But why did they choose orphans?" I asked. "And why would the children go with them?"
"They might have thought that, in a crowded orphanage, the children would not be easily missed," she continued. "They enticed them with a piece of candy, perhaps, or the promise of a good home. Life in an orphanage is a hard life, and that promise would be tempting. The orphans have some time outside every day, so the McNeelys could find them effortlessly."
"But why would Lady Camerick crave fingers?" I inquired.
"I have made a small study of mental disorders, Doctor," Emily Chrane replied. "The circumstances suggest that, because she had consumed no more than her sister's fingers, she would crave no more than the fingers. You have heard of the idee fixe psychosis?" We nodded. "Fingers became the idee fixe of her obsession. She had tried, I imagine, to combat the craving, and had had some periods of success, long stretches of lucidity. During these times she would dismiss her more disreputable servants, attempting to carry on with a normal life. However, inevitably, the madness would creep back into her life, and the murders would begin anew.
"I have been trying to catch Lady Camerick at this dangerous game of hers for years. The two skeletons were discovered shortly after I arrived in Edinburgh for my studies. Then I was merely a student, and a woman, no less, so my theories were summarily dismissed. When these new murders started, the instant I heard that the childrens' fingers were missing, I knew that Lady Camerick was involved. I needed more concrete evidence, however. The locket, doll and coats afforded me that. In addition, I needed a way to re-involve myself in the investigation. Sherlock, I hope that you are not perturbed at my using you in this way."
"By no means!" said he. "I enjoyed coming along, even if only for the ride, or should I say the ruse?"
"Now that the police have the entirety of the story, do you think there will be a scandal?" I probed.
"Only the three of us know the entirety of the story," said Holmes. "I imagine the McNeelys will take the blame for these most recent murders, and the others will remain unsolved. The police are generally discreet with their discoveries, particularly when it comes to the nobility. Every noble family has a dark cloud over its past, and every crest stands for at least one blood-soaked act. Even her Majesty may have some sordid secrets she hides well. Nobility always does."