The Addleton Tragedy and the Mystery of the Ancient British Barrow
Chapter Fourteen: Cold Comfort at Addleton
We made for a sorry sight as we wended our way back to the Dog and Duck that blustery night. I had gone ahead with Peregrine Holmes and Mr Bickerstaff, leaving Holmes and Sergeant Bruce to haul Aloysius Stoke ashore, while Lestrade directed from the safety of the bank.
At the time, I did not query the Inspector's reluctance to enter the water, since Holmes seemed to have energy enough on that occasion for all of them and had set about the task with a sense of urgency, lest, as I imagined, the body be carried away. Later, however, Lestrade would confide that he had had a nasty experience once with a corpse that had had too long to wallow in its own juices in a quiet backwater of the Thames. He had grimaced as he had glanced down at his shoes, leaving me in no doubt as to the nature of his unfortunate encounter.
With the pony commandeered for the transportation of the body, I was left to get the walking wounded back to Addleton as best I could. Peregrine Holmes tried to put a brave face on his condition, but failed. No doubt Holmes would have disapproved. In a failing he shared with the rest of the population, his cousin felt his pain keenly and by the time we arrived at the tavern, his tortured expression told eloquently of his suffering.
Mr Bickerstaff was quite another matter. He had quite recovered his wits after passing out in the graveyard, but he was still deeply shaken by the experience. He was too quiet for my liking and I was concerned that the strain on his system was liable to produce delayed symptoms.
Even my attempt to lighten his mood by suggesting that this was not quite what he had expected from life as a research assistant to a professor of archaeology failed to raise the trace of a smile. Instead he had muttered that if this was going to happen on a regular basis, then he intended retraining as an engineer. I decided not to tell him about the unfortunate experience of Victor Hatherley and let the matter drop.
What he needed – what we all needed in fact – was warmth, rest and sustenance. Whether we would find it at the inn was another matter. What with the state of us and the puddles we were wont to leave whenever we stopped in one place for too long, the landlords of the lowest drinking dens in London would have been well within their rights to turn us away.
Not so Mrs Lacey. For all her questionable practices in the kitchen, her kindness to her weary and sodden guests that night stands out in my mind as the one redeeming feature of that god-forsaken village. No sooner had we entered, shivering and dripping all over her polished wooden floor, than she had had a fire banked up and brandy to go round.
Several of the locals seemed to find amusement in our plight, less so when we gave a hasty account of our experiences and exposed the viper that had nestled among them. They became rather more amenable after that and started on that old tale of how they had always maintained there was something amiss with Inspector Rose. Hindsight, as they say, is a wonderful thing.
While Mrs Lacey bustled around fetching towels, I sent Bickerstaff up to his room to find dry clothes and asked for someone to fetch the village's only, and hitherto noticeably absent, doctor. A child who had been waiting for a jug to be filled with beer duly obliged and a short time later he was back, bearing the doctor's medical bag. Dr Montague could not come himself, he explained, on account of a griping in his bowels, but as he had heard a fellow medico was already in attendance, I was welcome to use his supplies.
As gestures went, I would have been more impressed by a personal appearance. My eyes stung from tiredness and I had limited movement of my hands. The first problem I had to ignore; the second was resolved sooner than I had expected.
Since Holmes had been out of bullets and Mrs Lacey had no tools we could use, word went out for the blacksmith. A little later, as I lingered before the fire, the heat warming the metal enough to make them uncomfortable to the touch, I was accosted by a large man with calloused hands and a belligerent attitude.
He had been having his dinner, I was told, when a boy came to tell him that some fool had got himself trapped in an old set of shackles and could not get free. I had to own up that I was person in question, whereupon he produced a chisel and a huge hammer. A good many masterly blows later, I was finally free and my wrists were thoroughly bruised.
In all honesty, I would have been more than happy to climb into my bed and stay there until daybreak. Given the events of the past few hours, however, I doubted whether my rest would be a peaceful one. To further burden my conscience, Peregrine Holmes declared that he would trust no other with his sore ribs, especially in a place where the drinking supply was regularly seasoned by the village dead. That was a sentiment with which I could quite sympathise. I relented and forced myself to the weary task.
I had not the best materials at hand. I suspected it had been some time since Dr Montague had replenished or refreshed his supplies. The bottles were universally old, some were missing their labels, which had collected in the bottom of the bag in a jumble of crisp, brown paper slips, and at least one had what looked suspiciously like mould growing around the cork. One vial had developed a crack, from which the contents had proceeded to leak. As a worrying smell of bitter almonds accompanied the stain on a greying roll of bandages to be found, I decided to look elsewhere for a dressing.
No sooner had I described my predicament to Mrs Lacey than had she swept a dusty bottle from a shelf and drawn the cork with her teeth. To my consternation, and Peregrine Holmes's evident alarm, she declared that her old ma had sworn by the healing properties of gin and then had proceeded to pour the contents over his wound.
It was crude but effective. Never have I heard a man howl so loudly or for so long. Mrs Lacey, however, was pleased with her work and said that she would do her best to find some bandages for the poor man. When his flesh had stopped smarting from its exposure to the astringent effects of the alcohol, Peregrine Holmes expressed his intention to plant himself in his study and never stray so far from home again.
"Not that it hasn't been an experience, you understand," he explained at length. "One may learn from even the most distressing of situations. All the same, I do not have the constitution for such a life. One imagines that the people involved in these situations one reads about must have reserves they are able to call upon in a crisis. I, however, find myself decidedly lacking in that respect and must resign myself to a quieter life."
I let him ramble, feeling too spent for much in the way of conversation. Mrs Lacey duly returned with a moderately clean sheet which she had shredded it into manageable strips. I set about dressing the wound and Peregrine Holmes continued in his own fashion.
"That spirit of adventure that sees a man want to head out into the jungle or tackle armed villains has always perplexed me," said he. "However, perhaps I understand a little better now why my cousin was insistent on following such a course against all advice to the contrary."
I could not help myself. "The family did not approve?"
"In no small part. It is hardly the profession of a gentleman." He hesitated and a flush spread across his cheeks. "Oh, I did not mean to cast any slur on you, Dr Watson. I have the deepest admiration for you, sir. I know I would not be quite so composed had I been through half of what you have endured this night."
"It isn't usually like this," I replied, feeling somewhat defensive. "This has been…" I struggled to find the right word. "Well, it's been more than a little trying."
"Trying, you say," said he severely. "Positively lethal, I should have called it. It comes as no surprise that Sherlock should risk all on behalf of other people, but I had not realised he was quite so lost as to expose his acquaintances to untold danger."
"In all fairness, he did tell me to leave, even if he was somewhat vague about his reason."
"And yet you returned, sir." He was gazing at me keenly. "Why?"
"Because I thought he might be in danger."
He accepted this statement with a thoughtful nod. "I could never envisage any of my brothers being so loyal in my defence," said he wistfully. "It is a poor family indeed who has to look for nobility of spirit in kith rather than kin."
"Holmes stood by you."
"Yes, but then he's—" He paused and gave a tight smile. "He's different, isn't he? He does not lack that courage that seems to elude the rest of us."
I had expended a good deal of time and energy over the past few days being annoyed and saddened in turn by Holmes's apparent reluctance to trust me with the most intimate details of his life. Now, the truth was being dangled before me like a carrot to tempt a donkey and I had no appetite for it.
I did not want to know; at least I did not want to hear it from Peregrine Holmes.
If, at some later date, Holmes wished to tell me, that was another matter. Until then, I had no wish to go behind his back. I flattered myself that an issue of trust was at stake. Having come so far, I was not about to fall at the final hurdle.
The silence and Peregrine Holmes's expectant gaze informed me that he was waiting for a response and I gathered it would be no great task to draw the information from him. In an effort to frame a polite but firm declination, I dallied too long.
The sudden murmur of voices made me start and turn to see Holmes coming through the door. I caught his eye and I fear he read my struggle with my conscience all too plainly. I imagined he would assume my guilt about something; but then as Holmes is fond of telling me, reliance on guesswork is a shocking habit. I hoped I would be granted the benefit of the doubt.
"Well," said he, coming over to join us. "How are your patients, Doctor?"
There was nothing I could deduce about his humour from the unemotional tone of his voice, not that that was unusual.
"They'll live," I told him. "Your cousin was lucky."
I would not say that Holmes exactly glowered at him, but the look he bestowed upon his cousin was anything but benevolent.
Peregrine Holmes visibly squirmed. "We were just talking about you, Sherlock."
"Were you?" Holmes said coolly. "I'm glad to hear you were putting your time to profitable use. We were not altogether idle either."
He gestured vaguely to the open door, through which I could see Lestrade in conversation with Sergeant Bruce. Orders were passing from one rank to another, which resulted in Bruce leading the pony away with its grisly burden. His work done, Lestrade entered and came straight over the fire, dropping a dripping sack as he did so.
"My word, it's parky out there," said he, rubbing his cold hands before the blaze. "Any chance of a nip of that brandy to warm the old cockles?"
I passed him what was left in my own glass while I finished my ministrations. Peregrine Holmes let out a loud groan as the bandages tightened around his injured side and all eyes at the bar turned in our direction yet again. Holmes sighed and Lestrade grinned.
"Cousin, eh?" remarked the Inspector. "Any more like him at home, Mr Holmes?"
"Unfortunately, yes," said he. "But none like me, if that's what you're asking."
"Well, that's a comfort. One of you is quite enough."
"Kind of you to say so, Lestrade. Now, if you'll excuse me."
He left, I assumed, to find a dry change of clothes. We three huddled around the fire and quietly steamed before I finally put to the Inspector the question that had been on the tip of my tongue since he had entered with his mysterious bundle.
"Mr Holmes fished that out of the river," he explained. "Waded under the bridge to retrieve it too. We had a nasty surprise when we had a look inside."
He delved into the bag and came up bearing the skull of the young woman who had been buried in the barrow.
"Poor devil," said he. "I reckon Stoke threw her in hoping the bones would be washed away right before he staged that ambush at the church. From the tracks, it looked like he'd crossed the bridge and then doubled back. It's my opinion he'd seen us coming to your rescue and thought he'd return to finish the job."
He said it with great authority, although I detected Holmes's hand in the reconstruction of the events as described. I did not contradict him. Credit would go where it was deserved in due course of time.
For the moment, Lestrade was lost in contemplation like a latter day Hamlet with his Yorick.
"Who do you think she was?" he mused.
"That is what we shall endeavour to discover," came Holmes's imperious tones from behind us. "And this very night."
We three bedraggled souls surveyed him, as enviably prim as ever, as he positioned himself before the fire and took the lion's share of the warmth. In the short time he had been gone, he had changed, washed the grime from his face and rubbed a cloth over his shoes. He had even combed his hair.
"Mrs Lacey said she wants to see you out of those wet clothes, Watson," he informed me.
Lestrade's eyebrows rose as he chuckled. "I think I could take to country life."
"It's not what you think," said I wearily.
"Indeed no," said Holmes. "I believe she has managed to find you something dry to wear. If I were you, I would not keep the lady waiting. I should not rate the chances very highly of any man who thought to deny her wishes."
I rose, removing several items from my pockets as I did so. My hand closed around the gold locket I had found in the barrow and I duly handed it over to Holmes.
He considered the portraits within. "The gentleman is Lord Stoke. There is something of the son about the eyes. This woman, however, presents a greater challenge. Her style of dress is continental, as is the manner in which she has dressed her hair."
"Is she the woman in the barrow?" Lestrade asked.
"That I doubt. Both she and the gentleman are young, which places these portraits mid-century. If the woman Stoke killed was no more than five-and-twenty, then she and the woman in the locket cannot be one and the same. Unless…" His eyes had grown hard and bright as was his custom when his concentration was intense. "Perhaps a daughter? Why else would she carry such a locket unless the people were known to her?"
"An illegitimate child, you think, Sherlock?" asked his cousin.
Holmes was too intent on his thoughts to answer immediately. "I do believe," said he finally, "that this case runs deeper than I had at first imagined. I should have realised when Stoke said that his father had valued him less than a woman. Why kill her unless she posed a threat? What if she was a legitimate child? Yes, yes, that makes more sense."
I frowned. "Are you saying that Lord Stoke married this woman, they had a child and then he left her to marry Lady Maud? Wouldn't that be bigamy?"
"Only if the first marriage was never annulled. If it was, then this lady still might reasonably expect to be favoured in her father's will. If not, then at a stroke this daughter's existence would have thrown into doubt the legitimacy of Aloysius Stoke and his hitherto unassailable claim on his father's fortune." He snapped his hand shut and the gold chain dangled between his fingers as he pressed his fist to his lips in thought. "Delicta maiorum immeritus lues, as Horace has it. A poisoned chalice indeed to hand to a son who reacted according to his nature, with violence and murder!"
"A sordid tale, if it's true," said Lestrade. "Lord Stoke will have to deny or confirm your theories, Mr Holmes."
"If he is able, which I doubt," said Holmes. "In either case, Lady Maud surely will."
"You intend to question them now?" I asked. "When their son has just died?"
"They have known of murder and said nothing. It is high time the truth was known. As to their reactions, to the father, he was dead already. To the mother…" He tailed off into silence. "Well, we shall see."
"Do you want me to come with you?" I offered.
"No, my dear fellow, stay and recover your spirits. I will inform you of all when I return. Besides, it would be ungallant of me to drag you away from the dubious charms of Mrs Lacey."
He nodded to where she had appeared and was now beckoning to me. We parted, Holmes and Lestrade to Addleton House, and me upstairs to change.
Mrs Lacey had been as good as her word, and had laid out for me a clean shirt, a pair of Sergeant Bruce's trousers – I thought it best not to ask how she had come by them – and an old dressing gown. This attire would have raised a few eyebrows had I been anywhere but a remote country tavern and the atmosphere fairly alive with the news of the night's events. Weary of their questions, I found myself a quiet chair by the fire and soon found myself drifting off.
I do not know how long I slept, except that some time later I was awoken by a soft voice calling my name and a hand that shook me firmly by the shoulder. Holmes had returned and from his demeanour I could tell that the conclusion of the case had not been satisfactory. The bluish circles had hung under his eyes were turning black and the inelegant manner in which he slumped into the fireside chair opposite spoke of the depression that had settled over his soul.
"My apologies for waking you, Watson," said he, "but I thought you would care to know of the events that passed at Addleton House."
"Indeed, I would. Pray, tell me all."
"We are in blood stepped in so far in this business," he mused, his gaze directed at the hearth. "It was as I feared, Watson. The dead girl's name was Metje, the only child of Lord Stoke's first marriage. He had wed her mother in his youth whilst travelling on the Continent. The match was ill-starred – she was poor, and he was heir to a country estate and the titles that went with it. The family persuaded him with threats to give her up in favour of a more advantageous match. She, being Catholic, would never agree to a divorce, but out of love and regard which he did not deserve vowed to keep their marriage a secret. Stoke abandoned her and returned to England to marry Lady Maud bigamously. He knew nothing of the child until she came to Addleton House, seeking his help after her mother died."
"Good heavens," said I. "Lord Stoke must have been taken aback by her sudden appearance."
"On the contrary, he was overjoyed. He welcomed this unexpected child with open arms, much to the alarm of Lady Maud. It seems he did not fear the resulting scandal as much as his family. Indeed, his actions seem to indicate that he courted it. He spoke of making all known and favouring this daughter as a legitimate heir. From all accounts, his son was considered a bad lot: moving between various schools, getting into scrapes at university, and generally falling far short of his father's expectations. He had not anticipated that that rebellious streak would run to murder, however. The mother sent news to the son, and he to Addleton House came with the intention of silencing this pretender."
"He told me he had killed her. He said he had suffocated her."
Holmes nodded. "One step along a long and deadly road that would claim the lives of many. The father endeavoured to conceal his son's actions, whilst finding a punishment to fit the crime. An army commission seemed to fit that bill. If he returned with honours, then all would be forgiven. Should he die in battle, then was justice seen to have been done. Again, he reckoned without his son's nature. The news of his dishonour broke what little grip Lord Stoke retained on his sanity, but not before he disowned the boy in his will."
"Was it legal in that case? Could it not have been challenged on the grounds that Lord Stoke was not of sound mind?"
"No doubt, but then Aloysius Stoke would have had to come forward to present such a challenge. Given the charge against him, it was a risk he could not take. Hence this elaborate charade with false identities and Lady Maud's systematic selling of the family lands. On the husband's death, she would have retained her dowry, whilst her son escaped abroad with what they considered to be his rightful inheritance. But for the digging up of the barrow, they might have brought their plan to fruition."
"But, why, if they knew the girl was buried there, did Lady Maud sell Long Meadow? Surely it would have been safer to have retained it to the last."
"You remember that she told us that Mr Pearce had led her to believe that his only interest in the field was for pasture. He had his own reasons for deceiving her, seeing as how he believed that the contents of the barrow were worthy of Croesus. The news caused the further deterioration of Lord Stoke's health because only he knew where he had buried his daughter's body. Imagine their dismay when he finally told them the secret he had harboured for so long."
"He had buried her in the barrow?"
"Oh, yes. Although he could not publicly admit her death, he did endeavour to give her some modicum of dignity. I dare say he saw it as no lack of respect to bury her in a tomb alongside some ancient king, and on the very side overlooking Addleton House too. All those years that his wife looked out across Long Meadow, she did not know she was looking at the murdered girl's grave."
He sighed and rubbed his brow.
"The rest you know. Stoke had returned, older and disfigured and living a lie as an old soldier. He was little known in Addleton or Barbury in his youth, and given the remoteness of these places, it was easy enough for his parents to spread the news of his death. No one had cause to associate Inspector Rose with Stoke. Should anyone happen to recognise him, like Mrs Goodenough, it was easy enough to rid himself of the troublesome party and attribute the death to an accident in his capacity as inspector of police."
"Then why make the Professor's death appear as murder?" I asked.
"The digging at the barrow had to be stopped. These were not people who could simply be killed without questions being asked. At first, he tried to scare them away with straw figures and appearances as a prehistoric ghost. Then, when they began to dig in the very place where the girl was buried, his activities took on a more sinister aspect. The placing of the severed goat's head drove some away but not all. He had to resort to more drastic means after that."
I nodded, remembering Stoke's words. "He told me he meant to kill the Professor that night and would have done so had he not died accidentally."
"That I do not doubt for an instant," said Holmes. "After that, all he had to do was to dress the scene, blame one of the Professor's associates for the killing and the digging would be stopped. Whether the charge stood or not, it mattered little. Either way, it would give him time to retrieve the body from the barrow."
"But why did he not do that before?"
"Because there was always someone on guard, Watson. The Professor was sleeping there, remember. Leaving a straw figure is one thing; digging up a barrow is quite another. After the Professor's death, he thought he was safe for a time. Digging would be halted and he could retrieve the bones at his leisure when attention had moved away from the barrow. He had reckoned, however, without me."
His eyes had taken on that particular gleam I knew so well.
"It was pure chance that Perry was a member of the dig. Had it been some other unfortunate, the case may well have made it all the way to the assizes. I forced Stoke's hand, by first denouncing the ludicrous claim of murder and then by suggesting that the excavation recommence. He had to act out of self-preservation."
"And risked the lives of both Mr Bickerstaff and your cousin in so doing," I reminded him.
Holmes shook his head. "They were safe enough during the hours of daylight while the villagers were active. I told them to be long gone before dusk. I had not anticipated that the rain would move in so swiftly, which of course gave Stoke the perfect opportunity to strike. That I was delayed did not help our cause either." His eyes met mine. "As for you, Watson, well, the further you were removed from this place and Stoke's reach, the better, as you subsequently discovered to your cost."
With his tale told, he gave a half-hearted wave of his hand, as if to indicate that he had lost interest in the business. For my own part, I was still burning with curiosity.
"Lady Maud told you this?" I asked. "Willingly?"
Holmes regarded me for a long moment before pointedly looking away. "No, Watson, she did not. Most of this information came from Lord Stoke, from a document we found in a secret compartment of his desk, signed and dated some seventeen years before. The rest I have been able to deduce."
"You found this document? Why ever were you looking for it in the first place?"
"Because Lord Stoke indicated that it was there."
There was something about this business that either I was missing or Holmes, as usual, was keeping close to his chest.
"Granted, its location was conveyed by the merest movement of his eyes," said he absently. "A man so close to death may be forgiven for a lack of coherence. It took a devil of a time to find what we were looking for; these old Chippendale pieces are artfully constructed. For the concealment of such a document from his family, Lord Stoke chose well."
"Poor man," said I. "He is nearing his last, then?"
"He has now crossed that divide, Watson, though considerably before his time, I should say. He may well have had a few years more had not his wife poisoned him."
I stared. Holmes continued.
"Before poisoning herself, I should add. Oh, and before leaving me this."
He delved into his pocket and drew out a letter, which he tossed across to me.
"You may well ask from whom Aloysius Stoke derived his vicious nature. On the evidence of that, we may be fairly certain that it came from the maternal side of the family."
"Lady Maud is dead?" I asked, aghast.
Holmes nodded. "The deed was done before our arrival. Lord Stoke followed a few minutes later, not before giving me a subtle hint as to the document that could provide the final answers to this mystery. In all honesty, I had thought it might happen that way."
"You did?"
"Lestrade had instructed Sergeant Bruce to find a suitable resting place for Stoke's remains. Well, it was either Mrs Lacey's pantry or Addleton House. Naturally, he chose the latter and then made the mistake of allowing Lady Maud out of his sight after bringing such news. It was time enough for her to devise her own means of escape. Poison for the husband who had betrayed both herself and her son, and poison for herself now that her child was dead, the only thing as she told us that mattered. And that," he gestured to the letter, "she left for me."
I beheld the envelope with some caution. "Should I be on my guard?" I inquired.
"Not unless you believe words are able to cause physical harm." He yawned. "Now, if you will excuse me, this has been a long night. I shall snatch a few hours' sleep and then we will leave on the first train out of Addleton." He rose and started towards the stairs. "I believe I am so tired that I could even sleep through one of Perry's nightly choruses!"
He left, and with grave misgivings I opened the envelope and read the contents. Addressed to my friend, the message was short and succinct.
"As to the crimes for which you would have me stand accused," it read, "I declare that I am guilty of no wrong, save that of a mother's love for her son. As for you, Mr Sherlock Holmes, this is my only prayer: that you may be long for death, but be unable to die."
I replaced the letter in its envelope, feeling heartily sick to the pit of my stomach. Our departure from Addleton could not now come soon enough.
Don't worry, Dr Watson. You'll be leaving very shortly and heading home to Baker Street for the final chapter of the Addleton Tragedy.
Concluded in Chapter Fifteen: Homeward Bound!
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