CHAPTER III.

TWO QUEENS AND A DAMOSEL

And thus it was that the following morning both Holmes and myself set out for Trantridge. I was clad in a Norfolk suit, appropriate to the countryside, while he was disguised as a middle-aged master mariner, 'Captain Mycroft', in Joshua Brooks' clothes, a false beard, and his brother's name. Mrs. Brooks had been impressed with the result.

"You'd no' pass for Josh, but maybe for a cousin!" she said. She offered him a watch-chain of finely woven dark hair "for the finishin' touch: a real sailor's keepsake."

Holmes looked from it to the lady herself, whose hair was of a tawny hue, beginning to turn grey. "It is not your colour."

She smiled bleakly. "No - it's Nell's - his first wife's. Josh aye wore it."


The nearest station was some three miles from our destination. When we arrived, I waited for the local carrier, while Holmes - as befitted his disguise - began to walk.

The carrier tipped his hat to him as we passed him on the road. "I wonder what a sea-farin' man like 'at's doin' in these parts?" he asked, between teeth clenched on a clay pipe.

I shook my head.

"Still," he continued, "there's lots o' strange things goin' on 'ere, sir."

"Indeed?"

"Aye - ain't you 'eard? Just a few days past, the squire's doxy went an' knifed 'im. 'Twas at Sandbourne."

I feigned astonishment. "Good Lord! And has she been arrested?"

"Nobody knows where she be!" He cackled: "But that's what women does!" He then began to regale me with various pieces of folk wisdom against tangling with anything in a petticoat. Holmes probably would have approved.

"Are you not a married man, then?"

"Oh, I 'ave a wife, I 'ave all right! That be my very trouble!"

Eventually he set me down in the market place of a seemingly peaceful village. "This be Trantridge Cross, sir - I goes no further."

I paid him, and asked, as if out of simple curiosity, where the murdered gentleman had lived. He indicated a small road leading out of the village. "'Tis the big place up there - a modern sort of 'ouse, what 'is father 'ad built."

Since the day was fine and sunny, and my old wound from Maiwand little troubles me in such weather, I decided to walk to the Slopes. Along the way I passed a man with a large pot of scarlet paint. He was eyeing up a stretch of storm-bleached wooden fencing.

"How pleasant to see someone thinking of brightening up the landscape!" I remarked, thinking that he intended to paint the shabby fence.

"I work for the glory of God," he answered fiercely, "not to cheer sinners!"

Puzzled, I continued on my way. Presently I reached a charming red-brick gatehouse of fairly modern date. But, although it appeared inhabited, there seemed to be no life within. The wrought-iron gates across the entrance to the drive were padlocked.

Thinking there might be another entrance at some other part of the grounds, I continued, following the line of the boundary walls. Presently, I came upon a labourer digging weeds out of a drainage ditch by the roadside.

"Excuse me, my good fellow, do you know of any other way into the manor?"

He ignored me, bending to uproot a large clump of deeply rooted dandelions.

"Young man?"

The muscular figure turned. "Woman," she corrected. For - despite her stature and bulky, masculine garments - her face was that of a handsome country wench, swarthy and weatherbeaten.

"My apologies, madam!"

"There ain't nobody up there," she said, leaning on her spade. "'Tis all locked up, since they went to Sandbourne."

I was perplexed by this curious character. "I - I have just heard that there has been a... bereavement at the manor."

"Aye, you could call it that. Are you police or papers? There's been a few o' them swarmin' round."

"Neither. I'm from London; I had hoped to see Mr. d'Urberville -"

The big woman interrupted, laughing grimly. "You be a resurrection-man?"

"- on City business, but in view of his death... Is there no other family here?"

"There ain't no-one. All dead. The old lady died last year."

"I see."

She began to dig again, hard, as if expending some personal anger upon the hapless weeds. "Poor bastard! 'Tis a bloody shame!" she cursed, hurling aside another spadeful of sodden vegetable matter and mud in my direction. I jumped back to avoid it.

"You knew the deceased gentleman?"

She laughed again, ribaldly: "Like in the Bible! And 'e weren't no gentleman, either!"

"I was acquainted with him. Have you heard what happened?"

She mopped her brow with the back of her glove, and paused. "That Miss Tessy. They say 'twas 'er doin'. But I don't know, though she was always trouble... 'Tis a long story."

"Then I'll not detain you from your work."

"No! I'll call my sister - 'tis time we took a rest!" She clambered through the hedge and halloo'd across the field behind: "Nance! Bring the scrumpy! We got a gentleman 'ere!"

I heard an affirmative response through the clear air. Presently, another figure emerged through the hedge with the first woman. The second was similar in clothing, although fairer of hair and complexion. She clutched a large, corked owl-jug.

"This be my sister, Miss Ann Darch, sir," the dark girl said. "Nance, this be Mr. ?"

"Watson," I replied, dropping my title.

"Oh - and I be Car. 'Tis Caroline of a Sunday."

Nancy uncorked the jug and took a swig.

"'Ere!" remonstrated her sister. "That ain't nice! We got a guest!" And she snatched the jug, wiping the neck of it with her grimy sleeve. "Scrumpy, sir?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Cider!"

I declined the offer. The sisters Darch perched themselves on the edge of the ditch and passed the owl-jug between them. "'My God, 'tis thirsty work!" Nance swore.

Car said, "This Mr. Watson's askin' about Mr. Alec. 'E's a friend of 'is, he says."

"A bad business, that," her sister nodded. "You see, we both knew Mr. Alec pretty well."

"Not at the same time, though," Car added hastily.

"Well, not as a rule," corrected Nancy.

Car sniggered: "Arvest 'Ome in the old days!"

"We were all three just young things then, o' course! But we could tell you a few things about 'er they say's done it, couldn't we, Car?"

"We could. And about 'im."

I eyed them cautiously - a pair of lewd wenches; but talking to them might be useful. "Very well. Tell me what you know."

"You ain't police?" Nance queried.

I assured her that I was not.

"You'll know 'e 'ad quite an eye for the girls. Me and Car most of all: the 'Queen of Diamonds' and the 'Queen of Spades', 'at's us! 'Tweren't long after the old master died. That was a lot for young shoulders to bear, and 'is mother bein' blind, and all. A young boy like 'at needs some freedom!"

Car continued: "Then this Miss Tess come along, all primped up in 'er muslins, thinkin' 'erself better than we, and that she were 'is cousin!"

"- But 'e mowed 'er all the same, down in the Chase!" Nance put in, and they both laughed.

Car swigged back some cider, and sang raucously:

"So I went till we stayed at a bush,
We went till we stayed at two,
And the pretty birds flew in,
O and you know what I mean..
."

"Were you jealous?" I asked.

She laughed: "Not we, sir! Why, it taught 'er for callin' us whores! And for making fun when Grammer's tin o' treacle broke open on me! But" - and here her voice dropped - "after 'er, what chance did any of us 'ave for more than a bit o' fun? Why, 'e 'ad 'er livin' like a lady! I do believe 'e loved 'er, the damn fool, and 'er runnin' off and leavin' 'im after a few weeks!"

Nance picked up the story: "That were some four years back - '85, I think... Last time we seen Tess, she's workin' in the fields for that mean old bugger Groby, out by Flintcomb-Ash - she didn't look so pretty then! And Mr. Alec came lookin' for 'er, even though 'e'd gone all Evangelical. 'Tweren't right, 'im goin' Evangelical, not a good-lookin' man like 'at; fair puts you off your Scripture! They say she talked 'im out of it, anyway... But now look what 'e's come to - and she! 'Tis a bad state of things."

"Do you believe she killed him?"

"Why should she? 'E loved 'er, and kept 'er family - 'twould be bitin' the 'and that fed 'er! There was even talk o' marriage! Maybe I'm an ignorant woman, sir, but it don't make no sense to me."

"Really?"

"If you want an honest opinion, sir - I think there's other folk guilty, if you take my meanin'."

"Do you think it could have been another woman? A woman he... wronged in the past?"

The sisters laughed. "That ain't 'ow it be in the country!" said Nancy.

"No," Car added. "Why, 'tis only nature! 'Tain't no shame! That's the trouble with you City folks - you make shame of it - like the parsons make it sin!"

Despite the fact that I had not partaken of their cider, I was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. As a bachelor in the army, I had encountered women with cultural attitudes towards amorous matters which differed greatly from the usual mores of British society. What disturbed me was the fact that these were Englishwomen, nominally Christian, in the heart of the ostensibly unspoilt English countryside.

"But if there are children..."

Car shook her head at me as if I were an ignorant schoolboy. "There be such things as Motherwort! Grammer says there's a plant for every purpose, and them that don't know's bound to get stung; but for those who do, 'tis soon mended." She was undoubtedly referring to criminal practices.

"And even if there be a child," Nance continued, "'tain't the end o' the world, as long as there be food enough for all."

"- And scrumpy!" her sister added.

"Aye, and scrumpy!... So you see, sir, I think no sane woman would've done it. Plenty o' men jealous, though..."

"Plenty."

Standing in the warm sun in such company was affecting me more severely than I expected. My throat felt constricted, and I tried to slacken my tie.

"'Elp the gentleman loose 'is collar, Car," Nancy grinned wickedly.

I realised that it was time to attempt my escape. I side-stepped, only to slip into the ditch, in mud up to my ankles. The two amazons laughed, but gave me a hand out.

"Thank you, ladies! You've been most helpful!" I said nervously.

Nance smiled: "And you been most entertainin', sir!"

I began to retreat hastily along the road down to the village, but Car stepped in front of me, hands on hips, her expression no longer merry. "Listen, sir, I don't know rightly who or what you be with all your questions, but if I find who done it, I'll kill 'em, man or woman! And if you find 'em, tell 'em the Queen of Spades and the Queen of Diamonds 'ave cursed 'em solemn, oak, ash and thorn! Mind you that, sir!"

Shaken and muddy, I began to return towards Trantridge. I glanced over my shoulder but once to see Nance making a gesture with her hand: not an insult, but a sign against evil. Then she and her sister seemed to blend back into the colours of the landscape. The Queen of Spades and the Queen of Diamonds... I recalled Mrs. Brooks' description of the sanguine Ace of Hearts on her ceiling. But who, in this fatal game of cards, was the dealer? I am not a superstitious man, but of one thing I was certain: the Darch sisters were witches.

Such thoughts were preying upon me as I passed by the painter once more. I saw that he was not renovating the fence, but was instead inscribing words upon it with his blood-red paint.

THE, WAGES, OF, SIN, IS, DEATH

ran the legend thus far.

"Excuse me, sir," I said, "but does this have some bearing on the local tragedy of which I've heard - about young Mr. d'Urberville?"

"An apostate, fornicator and adulterer!" he replied. "By the Lord's mercy, may he burn in everlasting Hell!"

"So you didn't like him?"

"What do you think!"

The strain of meeting the two Queens had shortened my temper, to my own misfortune. "Look, I'm not a theologian, but didn't the Lord take a different view of sinners- And by the way, you don't actually need a comma between each word: it's ungrammatical and - "

I was about to say, "and looks untidy", when the text-painter turned on his heel and shook his loaded brush at me, spattering my suit with red. I decided to take no more chances, and trudged muddily back into the village, where I waited at the market cross for the carrier.


When I eventually returned to Sandbourne, my bedraggled appearance occasioned many stares. I was relieved to reach the peace of The Herons. Mrs. Brooks ordered me to remove my boots before crossing the doorstep. She clucked about my "clairty feet" and the paint on my jacket, and bewailed the general messiness of "young fowk these days", as if I were eight instead of thirty-eight.

After a bath and change of clothing, I retired to our apartment to write to Mary, explaining further the circumstances surrounding my postponed return to London. No doubt Mrs. Brooks was keeping 'our Jessie', as she called Mrs. Hudson, informed.

Holmes did not arrive until evening. He appeared tired, and was only too glad to put aside his disguise. He had evidently left the sewing-basket behind, but had brought back two jars of home-made jam, one of damson and one of crab-apple, which Mrs. Brooks was more than happy to receive in lieu of the spare armadillo. After dinner, he listened to my account of my adventures with the two Queens, which allowed us to reject the 'woman scorned' theory, and my misadventure with the religious fanatic. He then explained to us both the progress of his inquiries.

"It was most enlightening, although it served only to confirm my feelings about the countryside... God knows what goes on there undetected, unsuspected. There may be sinister currents lurking in the most innocent..."

His persona as 'Captain Mycroft' was ostensibly an acquaintance of Mr. Clare's from his time in Brazil, seeking news of his old 'friend' at his wife's family home. The armadillo work-basket was a suitably South American gift for Tess's mother.

Holmes had found Joan Durbeyfield at her home, a neat cottage with a walled garden, evidently recently refurbished after years of neglect. He suspected, from one or two feathers caught under the new whitewash, that it had previously housed poultry. Mrs. Durbeyfield was in her early forties, careworn, but with traces of former beauty. She was respectably clad in mourning, and - less respectably - was somewhat attached to a bottle of gin.

"She has the wit to be alarmed at the precarious position in which Alec d'Urberville's death had placed her and her family," he said. "She has six other children - three girls, three boys, aged between sixteen and five. Like the old woman in the shoe, she doesn't always know where they all are at any one time, but she's a loving mother and is anxious for their future. Since her husband died at the end of March, only d'Urberville's help has saved them from homelessness and beggary. Their house is his property."

"That is most unfortunate," I commented.

Mrs. Brooks was concerned. "Sae what'll befa' them now?"

"That depends on the fate of the whole estate: he has no living relatives in this part of the country. He was drawing up papers to secure her rights to the cottage, but the solicitor had not finalised the wording before this unforeseen calamity. She says there's been no word yet from the firm, so she's hoping that all may be well."

"I maun see if there's onythin' I can gie her - for hersel' or the bairns... Puir sowl!"

"She was rather taken with the armadillo," Holmes said drily. "She had no notion that such a creature existed on God's earth!"

"I'll try tae fin' somethin' mair useful for her."

Holmes went on to describe his conversation with Mrs. Durbeyfield. The poor woman had apologised for drinking, explaining that it was on account of her distress, since the family's two bereavements. As she drank a little more, she became more open about the domestic situation. She said that she had heard that Mr. Clare had paid for her husband's tombstone, but added that he has never fed the living. Altogether, she spoke very bitterly of him, given his abandonment of her daughter and the consequences of his return.

"She said that the girl should never have placed her faith in such a man, 'for he was as constant as the moon, and twice as cold' - her very words," Holmes said. "These people have a heathenish poetry of their own."

The mother hoped that the fugitives would soon be caught: "I don't see why Tess should have done such a thing, unless that so-called husband of hers put her up to it. 'Twas a cruel thing to visit on us all," she had said, "for we had no other provider than Mr. Alec." Apparently Mr. Clare's parents were offering them charity, but until the facts of the case were established she was understandably reluctant to regard them as friends.

"At least that means we can rule out Tess's family, anyway - bread being more important than honour to them," I said.

"- To the mother," Holmes interjected. "And the younger children are unhappy - they know that their benefactor is dead and that their sister's life is in danger, but, of course, they are too innocent to know the full reasons. The eldest girl, Eliza-Louisa - 'Liza-Lu, as these barbarians call her, does understand - and she is very bitter about the whole affair."

"How old is she?"

"About sixteen, I should think."

I nodded. "A difficult age. And her father is also not long dead, as you said. Adolescents can show grief in curious ways."

"It is true that she has been affected by her father's death, but this latest tragedy... She does not grieve over that," said Holmes.

He described 'Liza-Lu as a highly-strung young girl, lanky, still more child than woman, with a sharpness and intensity in her features which heightened the impression that she was more a creature of the spirit than her corporeal, fallen sister. She had been most delighted to have the opportunity to talk to 'Captain Mycroft' when she learned that he was a friend of Mr. Clare's, for whom she bore a high degree of respect.

"Don't listen to what Mother says - she's a foolish, drunken old woman," the girl had advised Holmes. "I share a bed with her, save when she's been at the gin, so that's most nights lately I've slept in the kitchen chair. She should be glad we've been freed from disgrace! None o' this would've happened if Father had lived. We may be poor, but we won't be living on Tess's whoring any more."

"That's a harsh judgement," Holmes had parried, "with a young man dead, and your sister in danger!"

But 'Liza-Lu had not been moved, and had only muttered: "Maybe death would be cruel for some, but for that one, 'tis justice, for all that he was young and handsome. Why, even the devil was handsome when he was young."

At this point I interrupted Holmes' narrative with a cry of "What an insensitive child!"

"She is a stern moralist, and not unintelligent. She has been catching up on her schooling and wants to become a teacher. She said Tess had harboured such ambitions at one time, before she was seduced by Alec d'Urberville. 'She mix'd her ancient blood with shame', she said."

"That's fae a poem! I'm sure o' it!" said Mrs. Brooks.

"Yes - when I asked her if that was a quotation, she said she liked Tennyson."

"I canna mind which... It's a while since I read ony o' his..."

My colleague continued. "I asked her how she would afford to continue her education now Mr. d'Urberville was dead. She said she hoped that her mother would not be so stupid as to spurn the Clares' help: 'They're virtuous people, not like Mr. Alec,' she said. She cannot have conversed with Mr. Clare, so I can only assume that her high opinion of him derives from her sister."

I remarked that 'Liza-Lu probably envied Tess - her beauty, her fine clothes, her wealthy lover. No doubt her uncharitable morality was her way of rationalising her jealousy. One thing perplexed me: "What did she mean by 'ancient blood'?"

"This is most interesting, Watson. According to 'Liza-Lu, her family are the real d'Urbervilles - Durbeyfield simply being a rustic corruption of the name - and, as I suspected, the victim's claim to the name is of recent date. She is a proud little Norman damosel, who believes that her sister has degraded the family still further."

"A proud hert in a puir breist has meikle dule tae dree, as my mither said!" said Mrs. Brooks.

Holmes looked puzzled. "I beg your pardon?"

She translated, paraphrasing the original: "If you're puir and proud, it'll bring you sorrow."

"Do you think you could find that line of Tennyson for me, Mrs. Brooks?" he asked.

"I'll try," she replied. "And I maun help that puir woman and her bairns! It's bad eneuch losin' her man, but then this business wi' her dochter and her fancy man... Wha'd be a mither...?"

To be continued.