CHAPTER FOUR
After Molly had posted a quick apology to her mother, explaining the situation and inviting her to tea tomorrow rather than that afternoon, the three of us had donned our dark coats and hats and bundled into a hansom bound for Hurlstone House.
As we trundled through the bustling streets of London, Molly sitting beside me and Sherlock sitting across from me, none of us spoke. Sherlock had acquired that deadly-silent aura he put on when pondering deeply—he stared out the window, seeing nothing, his mouth a hard line. Molly, likewise, seemed to be lost in thought, though her features had taken on a more melancholy aspect; her large eyes reflecting the light without, a slight furrow to her brow. So I set to mentally reviewing the facts of the case myself, out of tried and true habit. After all, there was no better way to spend the hours during which we were forced to travel.
By early afternoon, we had left London quite a distance behind us, and had passed into the rolling, green countryside. As the sky opened up around us—albeit a cloudy sky—and the beech trees flanked the road, Molly sat up, and came back to the present moment, studying our surroundings with interest.
"Do you travel to the country very often?" I asked her.
"Never," she said quietly, watching a flock of sparrows flitter through the shrubbery. "All of our relation live in Town."
"Would you like to?" I wondered. "See more of the countryside, I mean."
She glanced at me, smiled slightly, and glanced down.
"I used to fancy having a cottage by some…sheep farm or something," she said, then tilted her head this way and that, her smile becoming a little playful. "Just to use on summer holidays." She sighed, and looked back out the window. "But I…doubt I'll everbe rich enough for that."
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Sherlock watching her. But as soon as he caught me catching him, he looked away.
Half an hour later, we arrived at Hurlstone. Sherlock bustled out, his shoes scraping on the gravel walk, leaving me to climb out next and help Molly down. The three of us stood before the tall entryway of a great brick manor, with many solemn, white-bordered windows, stately peaks, and narrow chimneys. A forest loomed on the grounds behind it, and tall pines flanked it. The cool, fresh air smelled of peat bog burning. I knew the place fairly well—Sherlock and I, of course, had been there twice already, attempting to solve the mystery of the family ritual. I rather wished that the case had over and done with yesterday with the finding of the crown, rather than reopening with this mess.
The front door opened before we could ascend the steps to ring the bell—and Sir Musgrave himself hurried out to meet us. The young man—same age as Sherlock—wore fine tweeds, and his dark hair had been combed, but his black eyes betrayed urgency, and his smile seemed quick as an afterthought.
"Holmes, Watson," he said, trotting up to us and offering his hand. Sherlock shook with him first, and I followed suit.
"Sir Musgrave, may I present Miss Molly Hooper," Sherlock gestured to her. Molly smiled at him, and immediately held out her hand to him. Musgrave returned the smile—more genuinely—and gently took her hand. The next moment, however, he frowned as he focused on her face.
"Good Lord," he remarked with alarm. "Someone has blackened your eye!"
"Oh! Yes," Molly let go of him and self-consciously put a gloved hand to her cheek.
"Indeed, someone has," Sherlock said stiffly, drawing himself up. "And we suspicion that it was your butler, Mr. Brunton."
"Good Lord!" Musgrave exclaimed again. "May I ask what drove you to that conclusion?"
"I prefer not to say any more until I have had a chance to question Miss Howells," Sherlock told him swiftly. "May I?"
"I do wish you would try," Musgrave answered, starting quickly back toward the house. I offered my arm to Molly, which she took, and the three of us followed.
"But as I said, we've not heard a word from her since she locked herself in her room," Musgrave went on. "I am…Well, I am quite concerned for her. I fervently hope she has not done herself a harm."
"Surely you should have broken the door in if you are afraid of that!" I cried as we stepped over the threshold into the grand, dark-wood entryway. We quickly followed Musgrave down a side hall, then headed toward a narrow servants' staircase.
"I am certainly going to resort to that, Dr. Watson, if Mr. Holmes is unsuccessful here," Musgrave told me as we trotted up the noisy, creaking stairs—I allowed Molly to proceed ahead of me.
The four of us tramped up three flights of wooden stairs, sounding like a herd of cattle, until we achieved a landing and pushed through a door to a narrow, colorless passage lined with low doors.
"Her room is at the end of this hall," Musgrave told us. "As you can imagine, Miss Hooper, I must keep quite a few servants to maintain this place. However, as far as equals in station, I'm quite alone in this vast place."
"It is a lot of room for just yourself," Molly remarked.
"Indeed it is," he said, sending her a smile over his shoulder. "Perhaps someday I shall marry, and fill it with children."
Sherlock instantly stepped around Molly to walk between her and Musgrave.
My mouth fell open. However, no one had time to make any more remarks, for with only half a dozen more steps, we had reached the end of the hall. This door was slightly taller, and recently painted. Musgrave rapped on it three times with his knuckles.
"Miss Howells, I do not wish to disturb you, but Mr. Sherlock Holmes is here to see you, as is Dr. Watson. You remember them from yesterday. They would endeavor to help you out of your distress if you will but speak to them."
No answer came from within. Musgrave worriedly glanced at Sherlock and gestured to the door, then backed away. Sherlock stepped up, and leaned toward the wood.
"Miss Howells, I truly do not wish to intrude upon your privacy," he began calmly. "But we are in desperate need of your assistance. If you can bring yourself to answer a few questions, we shall be off and no longer cause any disturbance."
Still no answer. Molly and I exchanged a glance, but Sherlock only leaned his head closer to the door.
"Miss Howells, you are acquainted with the former butler here at Hurlstone—Mr. Richard Brunton, am I correct? And you are aware that he has disappeared?" Sherlock paused a moment, then spoke into the ensuing silence. "If you have any information concerning his whereabouts, we would find it most valuable."
All quiet from the other side. Sherlock's jaw clenched—and I myself began to feel increasingly nervous.
"Miss Howells, it is vital that you answer us," Sherlock said, much more heatedly. "Vital and imperative—and if we do not hear an answer from you very shortly, we shall be forced to take extreme measures."
"Musgrave, I fear Mr. Holmes is right," I murmured tightly to him. "We might need to knock that door in—she may not be well, or even conscious."
Musgrave went even paler than before.
"May I…May I try?" Molly spoke up. Sherlock looked down at her for a moment—then nodded, and took a step back. Molly grasped her hands together in front of her, then stepped up to the door.
"Miss Howells?" she called. "My name is Molly Hooper. I'm afraid I am the reason Mr. Holmes is so in earnest. Well, not…not me, per se—myself, at all—but what happened to me. Since it is so mysterious. You see," Molly cradled her hurt hand, and ducked her head. "Yesterday afternoon, an intruder came into my house and…He overturned my furniture, and broke my plates, and he…He struck me. Over and over." Molly's voice shook, but she persisted. "And all the while, he said nothing to me. Nothing at all. I had no idea what I'd done to cause it."
Sherlock's eyes squeezed shut and he turned away from her. Molly went on.
"Mr. Holmes has deduced that the man who attacked me was a man in his forties, and a servant in a great house. And since Mr. Holmes had just solved a case here at Hurlstone, and then Mr. Brunton has gone missing…" She shrugged one shoulder again. "We thought perhaps it…Well, it was worth looking into, at least. I mean…I…I would like to know. Myself. I'd like to know the reason."
Molly fell quiet. I listened with all my might. Musgrave shifted—a board creaked beneath his feet.
Sherlock turned around—eyed the doorknob with violent intent—
A lock clacked.
We all jumped.
The doorknob turned. The door itself pulled open.
And in the gap stood a young woman with pale blonde hair—mussed from its bun. She wore a gray dress, had large blue eyes and a fairly pretty face—a face that was marred by dark bruises.
"Rachel!" Musgrave cried, his eyes going wide. He pushed past Sherlock and Molly and took the young woman by the shoulders. "Rachel, what has happened to you? Who has done this to you?"
Poor Rachel glanced past him and met Molly's eyes. The next moment, her face twisted, she burst into violent weeping and collapsed into Musgrave's arms.
SSSSSS
Minutes later, we all sat in Musgrave's lavish, ancient drawing room by a roaring fire. Musgrave had picked Rachel up in his arms and carried her all the way down, and seated her in his own broad armchair by the hearth. The next second, he had ordered the cook to bring in chamomile tea and brandy, and then to prepare some more substantial food, since Rachel had not eaten in two days.
Sherlock sat still for only a moment, then got to his feet and began pacing in the background. But Molly perched placidly on the edge of a chair, studying Rachel and Musgrave—and I sensed that Sherlock was taking his social cues from her, and restraining himself as a result.
"Doctor, would you take a look at her, please?" Musgrave urged me. I got up from my chair—I had been waiting for this invitation—and approached Rachel.
"If I may, Miss Howells?"
Languid tears still rolling down her cheeks, she nodded. I knelt in front of her, reached up and tilted her head back and forth, examining her bruises. I also rolled up her cuffs and found bruises around her wrists. Sherlock edged closer as I was doing this, and I felt his gaze travel across all the same places.
"Remarkably similar," I muttered.
"Identical," Sherlock corrected, looming over my shoulder. I looked up into Rachel's watery eyes.
"Miss Howells," I said quietly. "Do you know who it was who did this to you?"
She nodded.
"It was Richard," she whispered. "Richard Brunton, the man you are looking for."
"Why did he do it?" Musgrave asked, drawing near and kneeling on the floor next to her right hand. I gently withdrew, took a chair and slid it nearer. Sherlock remained beside Rachel's left hand, and Molly to my own left.
"Did he give a reason?" I pressed Rachel. She nodded.
"He did." She drew in a deep, shaking breath, and her brow twisted. Musgrave immediately reached up and took her hand, and squeezed it.
"It's all right," he soothed. "You are safe now, and we are all determined to help you. Please tell us, Rachel."
She swallowed hard, braced herself, and spoke.
"Richard courted me for several months, and we became engaged. But then, for some reason, Janet Tregillis caught his eye—and he left me behind. He began buying her presents, sometimes very expensive ones. It seemed to me he was spending more money than he had. Then, not long ago, he came upon your ritual, Sir Musgrave," she looked at him. "And Richard came to me, and told me that it had to do with a treasure, and he meant to have it—he said the family had never needed it—but now he would have no chance to find it because you, sir, had dismissed him."
Musgrave's mouth tightened.
"Yes, I had."
"I asked him why he had come to me," Rachel went on. "He said I was a clever girl, and I could have half of whatever it was we found—but we had to find it before the detectives did. But I knew it was because he wanted to buy Janet more presents, and probably had run himself out of money. And so I refused. He was very angry, but he left. Then, on the day that you, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, returned and found the treasure ahead of him, Richard came to find me. He said I had ruined him. He said he had needed that money to pay off gambling debts in London to the Carroway brothers, and now they would find him and shoot him. I told him I didn't care if they did. Then he…" Her throat choked. Musgrave's grip on her tightened, his face tensed, and his gaze sharpened.
"That was when he struck you," Musgrave realized. She nodded.
"And he broke into my money box," she swallowed. "And stole everything I had. He left, and shut the door behind him."
"That blackguard," Musgrave snarled, slapping his leg. "He's worried about being shot—I'll shoot him myself!"
"You may not need to, if the Carroway brothers are on his tail," Sherlock noted coldly. "They are a particularly ruthless pair of illicit businessmen who are the warp and woof of the British underground. They host illegal boxing matches, card games, and various other activities I shall not mention with ladies present."
"Perhaps he took Miss Howell's money to pay off his debt," I guessed.
"No, if he is truly worried, the salary of a house maid wouldn't even begin to cover it," Sherlock shook his head. "I have no doubt he merely took the money to travel back and make due in London."
"But why would he go straight into the lion's mouth?" Musgrave asked. "The Carroway brothers are there, are they not?"
"They are," Sherlock agreed. "But Brunton is intelligent—and he knows them well enough that if he attempts to run, his life is forfeit. The Carroways' web is wide, and their fingers reach even to the continent."
"What does he plan to do, then?" Molly asked. Sherlock's darkened eyes found her for a moment, then he drew in a breath and faced Musgrave again.
"The only thing he can do," Sherlock said. "He must gamble again."
"Surely not," I scoffed.
"He has no choice," Sherlock shook his head. "He must gamble and win enough money to pay them, or gamble against them—and win."
"So what do you propose?" Musgrave asked.
"I propose that you look after Miss Howells," Sherlock advised. "The three of us will return to London, and I will consult what informants I have concerning the Carroway brothers."
I got to my feet—so did Molly, and Musgrave.
"You needn't bother showing us out," Sherlock said to Musgrave. "Attend to her, if you would. And let us know if you find any clues as to Brunton's whereabouts."
"I shall. Thank you, Holmes," Musgrave shook his hand. I shook Musgrave's hand as well.
Then, Rachel made an urgent noise, and held her hand out—to Molly.
Molly quickly stepped up and took it. Rachel squeezed her fingers, and gazed earnestly up at her.
"Miss Hooper," she whispered. "Thank you. You…You gave me courage today."
Touched, I glanced at Sherlock—who watched Molly with a reserved, soft gaze, his eyebrows drawn together.
Molly managed a smile for Rachel.
"You did the same for me," Molly assured her. "And don't be afraid—Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson will find him. And he won't hurt either of us again."
Rachel nodded, her blue eyes shining, then reluctantly released her. Together, the three of us left Hurlstone, Sherlock falling once more into his dark and impenetrable silence.
To be continued…