Chapter four: Aside
It took us a moment to recover from the choc this communication purported. Mr. Holmes exhaled with a hiss.
"What gives you this impression, Miss Wilmot?"
She shifted in her chair uncomfortably. "I cannot tell – it is just that – an impression. It might be completely wrong…"
"Nonetheless, you should have informed us earlier. Do not you understand that we have to know everything?" he chided her.
I watched her with heartfelt pity, as she writhed beneath his glare.
"It seems so – so ungrateful – I mean to say, with Mr. Evans always being so kind to me…"
"Oh he is, of course. I nearly failed to recall how very kind he is to you", Mr. Holmes sneered. "If, however, you wish the mystery of your friend's death to be unraveled, you will have to abandon your inadmissible partialities, so as to render an unbiased judgment on my part possible."
"I am trying to!" she revolted.
"Well, we will have to augment our efforts, won't we?" he said, a little more friendly.
"Y – yes", she mumbled. "Where shall we begin?"
"I should like to call on the invalid, Mr. Jeremy Miller. Taken into account that you are familiar with his household, perhaps you would not mind giving us an introduction?"
"No, of course not. We could start at once."
"But surely you will be missed on stage?" I argued.
"Not today, doctor. I came merely to supervise the rehearsal, but my presence is not required until tonight's rendition."
"Capital!" Mr. Holmes cried cheerily. "Let us go to Chelsea and see how the young man is faring who has been so much beaten by fate lately."
Once we had found ourselves a cab and were on our way, my friend bent over to Miss Wilmot, inquiring: "Now that you proposed Mr. Evans as a suspect, I would like you to tell us everything you know about him. Would you be prepared to share your knowledge with us?"
"Naturally, Mr. Holmes. It is little enough. Mr. Evans has been acting for the greater part of his life, descending a family of renowned stage performers. He is brilliant in his roles, a capable manager and a generous employer."
"Hear, hear. Quite a model for mankind, our Mr. Evans. By the way, why is it that nobody ever refers to him with his given title?"
"He would not have it", the young girl professed. "When he entered knighthood three years ago, he insisted that we should continue to address him as Mr. Evans. He is a very modest gentleman – a rarity in our profession."
"Quite so." Mr. Holmes smiled pleasantly, although I knew he could not be impressed with modesty, be it fake or genuine. "He does not have any flaws whatsoever, then? No vices? No bad passions?"
"Well…" she faltered, then made an effort. "I have reason for the assumption that he drinks. Not frequently, mind you. Just now and then, when depressions seize him. I believe he seeks comfort in alcohol."
I gazed to the floor of the rolling cab in embarrassment. This sounded painfully familiar. In contrast to me, however, Holmes did not appear to make a connection between the managers assumed weakness and his own addiction.
"He does? Why is he in need of this peculiar kind of comfort, can you tell?"
"I could indeed. You see, there have been some tragedies in his life, namely of late. I noticed signs of drink on him ever since his wife died…that was two years ago."
"Do you know what she did die of?"
"Grief, Mr. Holmes. They had one single daughter – Meredith – a fragile maid, ever suffering from tuberculosis. When she was just eighteen, she was sent to the Riviera, to the small village of St. Tropez. But her recovery would not come. Instead of better, she grew worse within a couple of months – I understand there has been an unhappy love affair, which hurried things to an end. Meredith died just half a year after her arrival in southern France, and Mrs. Evans died soon afterwards."
"This is abominable!" I exclaimed. Holmes nodded gravely.
"It certainly is a tragedy worthy of one Sir Phillip Evans."
Chelsea was not a grand place in the late eighties, yet it could boast some very beautiful villas, set back from the street exclusively, and surrounded by fresh, trim gardens. It was just in front of such a mansion that we alighted, a bright house with an art nouveau façade and large French windows opening onto the lawn. That a man of Jeremy Miller's age should object to such a home seemed ridiculously immodest to me, for it was much more than a retired army surgeon like me could ever dream of possessing. But then, I have noticed, young people are ever craving for more. We passed the spiky, iron-wrought fence and went up a gravel path with a birch grove to our left and neat rose beds to our right. As usual, Holmes formed our avant garde, pressing the ringing button with the tip of his cane. The door was opened by an elderly woman with a friendly face but rather annoyed look on it. She was dressed in black, with a stiff white apron and nurse bonnet, and out of her left dress pocket stuck a pair of knitting needles.
"Good afternoon, lady and gentlemen", she greeted us. "I am Nurse Fawcett. Presumably you came to see Mr. Miller, but I assure you it is altogether impossible. Miss Bicester has prohibited any visits."
"I am sorry to hear it", Mr. Holmes responded regretfully. "Is he still in such a plight?"
"He is better now, sir. Personally, I believe it would perhaps not upset him too much to receive one visitor, but three are too many anyway and Miss Bicester forbade it explicitly and unrelentingly."
"In case we promised to hurry the interview, would you be inclined to allow us in? It would afford him some change of company, and you the break you so eagerly anticipate to see to that tricky piece of knitting work."
The nurse looked at him with quite a comical expression on her countenance, puzzled at his remark.
"Please", Miss Wilmot interjected, "would you kindly give my card to Mr. Miller? I am a close friend to the family."
Nurse Fawcett accepted the card, curtsied and disappeared into the house. Mr. Holmes swirled his cane leisurely. "My, my. It is more difficult than I would have expected. Miss Bicester appears to be quite the mistress to the place already."
"She certainly is very headstrong", Lavinia affirmed.
"It would be best if we grasped the chance as long as it offers itself – that is to say, as long as Miss Bicester remains at the theatre", I suggested thoughtfully. "We might not get another one."
As if in answer to my musings, the nurse reappeared on the doorstep. "Mr. Miller declares he is prepared to see you", she informed us in a neutral tone. "Pray enter."
We changed a glance of surprise and obeyed her request, following her into the elegant vestibule with the marble stairs and large chandelier. One thing was for sure: The inhabitants of the house did not suffer from privation. It crossed my mind how extraordinary it was for an artist couple like the Millers to have made so much money at such an early stage of life – the main credit for it would have gone to Catherine, I suppose. An enormous, if not very excellent portrait of her person was covering one of the walls, the canvas extending into all four right angles. Over the mahogany frame, a band of black gauze had been draped. Also the bouquets on the side boards had been covered with crape and the arms of the clock on the mantelpiece had been stopped. A maid stepped in with the ghost-like silence of a well-trained servant, relieving us of our wardrobe.
"To the left, please!" the nurse directed us, opening the door to one of the rooms facing the lawn in front of the house. Entering, I at once perceived the apparent taste Catherine undoubtedly must have possessed, having furnished the parlour carefully with lovely chinoiseries, very much in keeping with the latest fashion. There were little lacquered cabinets stocked with delicate blue and white porcelain, large vases containing bamboo canes and a handsome, in-laid game table in the centre of the room. The rear wall was adorned with a japanese raw silk carpet, and in the corner there was a tall folding screen displaying scenes from the ancient folk belief of the Shintos. Near the window, a little living room suite was arranged left and right of a chaise longue, occupied currently by the suffering Jeremy. Indeed he looked rather ghastly, with his face all pasty and sweat beads on his brow that had nothing to do with the hot and humid July weather outside.
"Jeremy!" At once, Miss Wilmot dashed over and flung herself to the floor beside the chaise longue. "It's me, dear – it's Ninny. There, there. You don't need to get excited. It is going to be all right."
The handsome young man had indeed showed signs of intense agitation on our entering, yet when he beheld Lavinia's sweet face and heard her gentle murmur, he calmed down a little, if not much.
"Lavinia! I did not do it, I swear – they will say that it was I who killed her, but it's not true! You have to believe me, Ninny…."
"Of course I do, dear."
"But – " he looked at us and suddenly gasped. "Who are they? Did you bring the police? Oh, I beg of you, I am innocent!"
She laid her white hand on his forehead and gently forced it down. "Shoo, shoo. You have nothing to fear. I brought friends, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. They are going to help us."
We stepped closer, and indeed Mr. Miller did not make further objections. Lavinia rose, turned around and silently bade us sit down.
"Now, Jeremy", she began softly as soon as we had been installed, "these gentlemen will ask you some questions and I hope you will be kind and answer them to the best of your knowledge."
"What – questions?"
"Mr. Miller", Holmes said strictly, "your wife has been murdered cruelly. It is not so out of the world to ask questions under such circumstances as you might think."
"I have…nothing to hide", Jeremy asserted.
"I should very much hope so. As to the motive, then. Did you know of any enemy your wife might have had?"
"None", Jeremy whispered, "None. Everybody loved her."
"Hum. The conditions contradict this assumption, don't you think?"
"I don't know", Jeremy wailed, "I don't know! I can think of no enemy!"
"Very well. You can conjecture no hidden grudge. Now to the method. She has been stabbed with a certain atrocity, indicating either a fiery temperament or considerable wrath. Could you imagine any of your peers committing such a vicious deed?"
"None."
"Do you know any of them to be in possession of a dagger?"
"None."
"You are not very forthcoming", my companion observed, a cool inflection creeping into his undertones. "Well then. Let us direct our attention to the victim herself. As her husband, you probably would have known of any secret in her past, any friend she might have wronged, any lover she might have rejected?"
"I would, of course, if there were such a thing. But there is nothing. She was not that kind of person, not Catherine!"
Mr. Holmes bent forward, crossing the distance between himself and Jeremy.
"There must be, Mr. Miller. There must be. She has been killed. One does not get killed for nothing. And if you refuse to tell me all you know, then I shall have to find out for myself."
Jeremy started, then he turned to Lavinia. "I told you they would not believe me! I told you so! Ah my god, I shall go to the docks, I know it!"
"Nonsense, darling. You did nothing wrong." She patted and soothed him shooting an angry glance of warning at my friend.
"Bless you, Ninny!" Jeremy almost sobbed. "I do not know how I have deserved your friendship. It is in need that one recognizes one's true friends, you know."
Mr. Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "You refuse to cooperate, which doesn't make a difference to me. But you must be aware that by doing so, you are thwarting the course of justice. I am unable to help if you don't tell me the truth."
"But I did! I did!"
"This is quite enough now, Mr. Holmes!" Lavinia scolded my friend, stiffening in her posture by Jeremy's side.
"Thank you, Miss Wilmot. Your assistance really is invaluable to me", the detective snapped. "Mr. Miller, may I assume that you actually want to see justice be done? Then I fail to comprehend your behaviour. Whom do you fear to incriminate? Is it yourself? Or perhaps your sister-in-law? She has taken over the reign remarkably quick, wouldn't you say? I take it she ordered your nurse to stay with you and keep out unwanted visitors. She has come into the possession of quite a large fortune through the death of your wife, hasn't she?"
"Mr. Holmes!" Miss Wilmot rushed over and faced him with an indignant expression on her delicate features. "Stop it at once! He is a sick man and must be spared this intolerable cross-examination of yours! Had I only known you would…"
"What is this turmoil?"
Four heads turned in amazement. Miss Elizabeth Bicester had appeared in the open door, gloves and hat still in her hands. Obviously she had left at theatre early and now stood on front of us like an apparition. Outwardly cool, she let her gaze roam our figures, from head to toe and back again, all the same I thought I could hear the blood roar in her ears and boil in her veins.
"How dare you, gentlemen!" she hissed in cold fury. "How dare you intrude into my home and disturb the confines of a sick room! You must be quite insane. I should advise you to leave at once, ere I summon the police."
"Miss Bicester – " I tried to intervene, but she cut my words short with an imperative gesture.
"Leave. At once", she spat. Her glare wandered from us to Lavinia, who quite helplessly stood next to my companion, apparently struck with silence.
"Lavinia." The young girl shook her head, struggling to control her rage, making the single word sound like the impact of a slap in the face. "You of all people must bring them here. A fine friend you are. Now get out."
Miss Wilmot extended her hands in an attempt of consolation. "Eliza…"
"Out!" Elizabeth shrieked, suddenly losing her temper and stomping her foot to the ground. "All of you regardless, insensible…"
"Miss Bicester." Holmes stepped up to her and raised his hand, thus silencing her. "In advance to your complimenting us further, I wish to enlighten you upon one incontrovertible fact. Murder is quite regardless. And it is insensible. Wouldn't you agree?" He flashed a quick smile at her, slightly bowed to Jeremy Miller and swept out of the room. Miss Wilmot and I exchanged worried glances, then we followed suit.
Sorry to leave it for so long, but lately Mr. Holmes had a hard time competing for my leisure with heaps of university assignments, a big sale at the store where I am a shop girl, a guest from the UK and preparations for my birthday party. But as you can see, I was inexorably drawn to Sherlock in the end. Good thing? My dears, I should "very much hope so". ;-)