Chapter Six: The Lucifer Hunt – Part Two
After our early meetings with the Viscount and Miss Thurlow, Holmes and I retired to our respective rooms where we rested after our long journey. The dinner we had been invited to attend was scheduled for eight thirty, so there were some hours yet to recuperate, and as we did so, our fellow guests began to arrive. Most were huntsmen and women of nobility of varying rank or at the very least from families that were regarded as 'good.'
Though Holmes's antecedents had once been squires, it was far enough removed for him to fall short of the required 'distinction' of our fellow guests, and with Miss Thurlow's mother's side of the family, the Pembridges, being impoverished minor nobility, by the time he and I awoke, washed, and dressed for dinner, we discovered ourselves to be the only 'common' folk present in the house. We were subsequently to discover, that that situation did not sit well with all we were to dine with.
The Right Honourable George Alexander Maxwell Hannibal Lynley, next heir to the Pendragon Estate and the title of Viscount, was an attractive young man of twenty and three and bristling with vitality and energy. Strappingly well built with broad shoulders and powerful muscular arms and legs, he was, like his father, quite short…though some five feet six inches to his fathers five and two. Unfortunately like many short men, what he lacked in stature he made up for in tigerish aggressiveness, and there was no doubting who was the leader of his particular pack of friends.
Though there was little doubt we could have picked him out for ourselves, as Holmes and I descended the stairs for pre-dinner drinks, he was pointed out to us by Phillip Lynley, who joined us almost immediately. Eager to make our acquaintance again, he set about informing us who those of note were through out the room - his brother, George's wife Claire, and some sundry friends of theirs including the exceedingly handsome Mr. Alexander Parry, whose dark good looks and equally dark eye for and way with the ladies was evident even from a distance, the tall angular Mr. Jackson Cobb, Miss Alexandra de Courcy, and Mr. and Mrs. Martin Yeates.
There was no denying the tightness in his voice when pointing out his brother, drink in hand and holding court in the centre of a large group of young men and women including Messrs Cobb and Parry, nor when he mentioned the woman, Alexandra de Courcy, a regal and icy blonde seated next to George, laughing quietly along with his entourage. Equally, there was no missing the softness that came with Phillip's pointing out of the young woman seated alone a little way away from the baying group around her husband.
Claire Lynley was a petite brunette with fine almost elfin features and large luminous dark eyes that were entrancing but unmistakeably unhappy. It did not take more than moment for Holmes and I to fathom that Miss Thurlow and her friend Lady Margaret had been correct, Phillip Lynley was indeed overly fond of his brother's wife…a recipe for disaster in any family.
From across the room, George Lynley's sharp blue eyes caught sight of us with his brother and narrowed noticeably. Leaning over to one of his friends, he whispered something with an unmistakeable gesture in our direction and a wicked smile which was followed by laughter and the quick, quiet retelling of the jest at our expense to the group at large. And so it was, unusually for Holmes, that we entered a room where the attention on him was largely mocking. To my friend, of course, it might as well have been water upon a duck's back, for if he showed any sign of interest, it was only in the alignment of his cufflinks on his dress suit.
Our young co-host in the absence of their father or great aunt, who had yet to descend, fetched us two glasses of champagne, and introduced us to one or two others around, including the Viscount's neighbours, Colonel Hapsworth and his wife, who were both also present in the house on the night of the attempted robbery. The Viscount had informed his friend of our presence, and the retired cavalry man was indeed most helpful and glad to recount what he recalled of that evening. The Colonel confirmed that he had been at the table with the gentleman after dinner that night, and that the party had consisted of the Viscount, both his sons, himself, Mr. Yeates, Mr. Parry, and Mr. Cobb.
When asked by Holmes if anyone had left the vicinity of the room, he, unfortunately, told us that all the men had, at one time or another left the room for one reason or other...and yes, he had seen the Viscount's valet, Pearson, after dinner seated outside the dining room, and when he had come to make up the Viscount's personal drink...a concoction of alcohol that by the sound of it should leave a man wandering witlessly through three counties after its consumption. Upon mixing and giving it to the Viscount, Pearson had asked for his leave and was duly given it, departing, just as Miss Thurlow had said, through the French windows for the veranda and the garden. So if he had taken the jewellery, it was prior to that, for it was straight afterwards that the Duchess retired for the night claiming a headache from the loud banter between the men.
As he was talking, Phillip Lynley, seeming restless as his brother's group grew ever louder and more fuelled by the flow of champagne, confirmed the Colonel's words, before politely detaching himself from our company. On glancing around a few moments later, I noted him standing alone, watching the assembly as they arrived and mingled, and politely making distant conversation, but remaining where he was against the wall, some six feet away from his brother's wife like a sentry.
"Ahh..." said the Colonel's wife with a smile, facing in the direction of the door to the room, "here are the young ladies. Your friends I believe, Mr. Holmes?" She nodded towards the door, and on turning, we noted Miss Thurlow with a stunningly beautiful raven haired woman descending arm in arm down the staircase, as they talked quietly together.
I had heard of Lady Margaret Sotherby; her father, the late Earl of Brighton, had been a member of the cabinet, and her husband, Sir Nicholas Sotherby, was a prominent young businessman and peer. Recently returned from the Orient, she herself was renowned as one of the most beautiful women of the age, and graceful and charming in accompaniment. I confess I could find no reason to doubt any of it as we watched their approach.
"I am acquainted with Miss Helen Thurlow, yes, Mrs. Hapsworth," Holmes replied, watching the two young ladies. "Lady Margaret, I am unfamiliar with...though I hear tell that she has a ready turn in lively conversation," he commented in reference to her telling all and sundry of Miss Thurlow's association with us.
As if sensing our eyes on her, our friend turned her head from her companion, her eyes sweeping over the crowd until they lighted on us, and where before they had been evaluating the assembled group with a rather distant air, when they reached my companion and I, they warmed instantly, and a small but friendly smile played upon her lips. Giving us both a barely imperceptible nod, she turned back to her friend, who was regarding us with a barely restrained look of fascination and curiosity.
"Such pleasant ladies," Mrs. Hapsworth commented with a friendly smile, "and such good friends despite the years of separation. I believe if Lady Margaret had not married in her debutante year, and left for Hong Kong with her husband, Miss Thurlow's diminished position till late might not have been so dire. It was unfortunate that they should be reunited only on Lady Margaret and Sir Nicholas's return when they heard of her father's death. A funeral is not the place to meet old friends." Her last words were punctuated with a sad shake of her head.
"Nor indeed is a crime the place to meet two such prominent celebrities," the Colonel said of ourselves, prompting a loud laugh from my colleague.
"Colonel, I scarce meet anyone save in such circumstances," he replied, his eyes mirthful, prompting the Colonel to flush at his words and join with him.
"Yes, sir...I suppose you're right!" he guffawed, as his wife and I joined them, and it was in such jollity that Miss Thurlow and Lady Margaret joined us.
"Good evening," came a soft, melodious voice from behind my colleague, who, with a smile still large on his face, turned and inclined his head in greeting.
"Good evening, Miss Thurlow," he returned, as did we all. She gazed at him for a moment with an intrigued expression that showed how little she had seen my friend actually in high spirits, before turning our attention to her companion. "Mr. Holmes...Dr. Watson...allow me to introduce Lady Margaret Sotherby."
The dark haired woman held out her hand for Holmes to take. "Good evening, gentlemen," she greeted us with a voice I can only describe as low and almost sensual in nature, and indeed, it suited her quite well.
Taking her hand, Holmes bowed over it, and looked up at her. "Good evening, Lady Margaret," he greeted her with a polite smile. "A pleasure...I had occasion to meet your father once or twice. A most personable man."
"And to meet you, Mr. Holmes...and thank you. It has been only two years, but his loss is still felt keenly," she replied with an incline of her head, before turning her attention to me. "And you, Dr. Watson, I have been looking forward to making your acquaintance. Your aid to my dearest friend is most appreciated."
I tell you now, that it was just as well my heart was firmly in the possession of my Mary, for it is no exaggeration to say that the green eyes that turned upon me that evening were as startlingly beautiful as I have ever seen. There is no doubt in my mind that Lady Margaret, married or no, left behind her a trail of pining gentleman fighting for her attention that would have made Helen of Troy envious. And it is with some embarrassment that I admit I flushed under her gaze, my words of greeting somewhat inept and stumbling, before I finally remembered to release her hand. I could virtually feel my friend's mirth increase tenfold beside me; however, I thank heaven that if she took notice, the good lady did not show it, and with a friendly smile, she turned to greet and speak with the Colonel and his wife, as Miss Thurlow gave me a reassuring smile of her own.
"Have you both settled in?" she inquired of us, in what, as I could readily and gratefully tell, was an attempt to shift the focus away from my bumbling.
"Indeed..." Holmes replied quietly. "Our rooms are more than comfortable." He gazed at myself and her both with a smile born of intent, his words softer still as the others in our party talked. "And I have discovered conveniently located to those of your fellow guests that night, Miss Thurlow."
Her eyebrow arched ever so slightly at that. "A fortunate coincidence, indeed," she agreed, her voice equally low as she flashed him a tiny smile. "The Viscount was never known for his subtlely."
"So it would seem," he said privately, and the look he was giving us became decidedly more conspiratorial. "After Watson and I return from questioning the valet in the morning, with the Hunt starting to gather, certain parts of Pendragon House may be open to...closer inspection," he suggested to us.
I have never been comfortable with the idea of 'breaking in' per se into people's homes or rooms; however, I am also of the belief that we have done more good with these occasional intrusions than not in such cases that Holmes has suggested doing so. So, with a slow nod, I turned to Miss Thurlow, who I expected would frown on such a request, but on the contrary appeared rather intrigued.
On seeing what way her mind was running, I was about to dissuade her from the idea of joining us, when our host, his aunt on his arm, entered the room greeting all, and barely a heart's beat later, the call to dinner was given.
We were seated opposite one another at long table with some forty or so other guests, the Duchess at one end of the table, the Viscount at the other. As was the custom, with the Duchess filling the role of hostess in the absence of the Viscount's late wife, his lordship sat with the two most prominent lady guests to his left and right. In this case, however, the two ladies had little time for each other, and Lady Margaret and Miss de Courcy spoke not a word to each other for the entire evening. Beside them sat Mr. Cobb and Mr. Parry, George Lynley's friends, whose bonhomie with Miss de Courcy was enough to ensure that Lady Margaret's conversation was directed almost in its entirety to His Lordship. Beside them sat the quiet but sweet faced Mrs. Lynley and another lady by the name of Virginia Mason, who was the fiancée of another of George Lynley's friends.
George Lynley himself sat beside his wife, I'm sure by design, and thereby surrounding the unfortunate girl with himself and his friends for the evening. The nearest point of relief for her was Martin Yeates, who was seated opposite her husband, and who made a point of directing much of his conversation to her, eliciting some of the sweetest shyest smiles I had ever seen on a lady. Seated beside George was Yeates's wife, Lavinia, who from her expression was not entirely keen on the experience, her opinion of her husband's old friend patently lacking and made manifest by the occasional disapproving glance she gave him whenever he called for more wine, which was often. However, opposite her and to my right, we were both fortunate enough to have Miss Thurlow, and we formed a firmly friendly triumvirate.
A triumvirate that was occasionally a quartet as to the right of Mrs. Yeates and opposite myself sat Holmes. For once, his demeanour did not seem bored or restless, and while he was quiet, I could tell his eyes and ears were unusually alert for such a gathering. Two perfectly charming spinster sisters sat to our right, both keen huntswomen, who thankfully for Holmes had absolutely no interest in anything so 'abominable and beastly' as the criminal mind and therefore had never heard of him, but did 'so adore' Paganini, so conversation was at least for him a viable commodity for the evening. Beyond them sat the younger Mr. Lynley with a friend of his, and he played host to the mid part of the table all the way down until the Duchess's influence came into play.
The vast majority of those at the table appeared to be George Lynley's personal friends, and though the atmosphere was lively, the rather intimidating glare of the Duchess of Monmouth, whose mere thrum of impatient fingers upon the table could put manners on a man, kept it decidedly in check. Beside her at the head of the table in his own chair sat the most unusual member of our table, her dog, Prince, who was seated in pomp as his name suggests in confirmation of the noble lady's decided eccentricities.
The wine flowed like water and most partook liberally despite the hunt tomorrow, the lateness of its start no doubt encouraging the riders to imbibe, but the food when it arrived was staggering in its copiousness and its variety. The finest and most exotic of dishes mixed with such local fare as meat pies and haunches of venison. It was a quite amazing sight, and the table seemed to groan with the weight of the lavish fare. It took both of us by surprise, and raised a laugh from the lips of our host.
"Ah Mr. Holmes, Doctor," he chortled on seeing our faces, his glass of hock at his lips, "I see you find the table set to your liking? We like to cater for our esteemed guests' refined palates, but always remind them that there is occasionally nothing finer then good solid English food."
Holmes was about to reply, when the deep baritone voice from the broad chested personage of the Viscount's eldest son cut across him. "Indeed..." he said slowly, "my father sets a most amusedly egalitarian table." He leaned forward, gazing past Mrs. Yeates, who was between them, to address Holmes and myself. "Common food mixed with the rich...most suitable for tonight's table, wouldn't you say?" He arched an eyebrow, making his meaning all too clear.
I glanced over at my companion, feeling a flash of ire and annoyance shoot up my spine, but for the sake of the case and manners, I held my tongue. Next to me, however, Miss Thurlow stiffened in her chair, taking offence at his remark, no doubt not only on our behalf, but also as she was only newly delivered from poverty herself.
My colleague, though, merely watched as George Lynley had his plate filled with the most exotic and expensive of foods, before raising his knife slowly with his eyes on the young man, and reached towards an impressively large pork pie that had been placed before us on the table, cut himself a healthy slice, and dished it onto his plate. "I see you do not partake of this fine Somerset pie, Mr. Lynley," he noted. "A local farmers dish and once the favoured food of King Henry the Eighth, if I'm not mistaken," he addressed the Viscount. "The food of kings and the true gentlemen of the earth was his description, was it not?"
"That's quite correct, sir! Quite correct!" The Viscount nodded, seemingly oblivious to both his son's rudeness and the glare his son gave Holmes at his subtle retort.
Lynley reached for his wine glass, and took a healthy swig before indicating to the footman to refill it, and then glancing at his wife's plate pronounced loudly, "In Heaven's name, Claire, eat will you! It's not like you don't need it!" He nudged her as conversation went on around them. My eyes drawn to them by her husband's volume, I felt a surge of sympathy as the pale young woman winced noticeably at his touch.
"Yes, George. You're right, of course," she murmured. Her voice was so soft and timid I could barely hear her from where I sat, as she quietly moved to take a few small potions of the fare, though she only proceeded to pick at them.
"Oh for pity's sake!" he exclaimed, picking up an entire half roast chicken and dumping it on her plate. "Eat that! Look at Miss de Courcy, she eats as a proper woman should eat...learn from her!" He gestured down the table at the blonde woman who eyed his wife with amusement.
"Let her be, George…" his father interjected, the smile on his face evidence that he was enjoying himself with the attentions of the twin beauties of Lady Margaret and Miss de Courcy, and unable to see his daughter-in-law's discomfort. "If she's not hungry that is."
His son's head turned to him with a smile which altered his face considerably, his eyes twinkling and giving his features such a friendly and warm appearance that I began at last to see how men and women could fall willingly into his sphere of influence.
"Father," he said with a quietly admonishing smile, behind which butter itself would not melt. "What kind of a husband would allow his wife grow pale and wan from lack of food?" he asked plaintively.
His father weighed his words and nodded finally. "He's quite right, Claire…" he agreed a moment later. "Eat, my dear, eat!" he encouraged her with a blindness that quite made me want to roll my eyes and draw him to one side for a harsh talking to.
The Viscount glanced around at us as we ate and smiled once more. "How goes everything? Is it all to your taste, ladies and gentlemen?" he asked in the manner of the country squire, and was greeted with a chorus of approval for the fare.
Lynley sat back with a broad smile, fingering his glass as it was being filled again and glancing to his right. "Everything is wonderful, Father...though I was meaning to ask our esteemed police friend here why he is here investigating a case that is already solved? Surely that isn't how you made your reputation, Mr. Holmes...or is it?" he enquired, his smile still innocence itself, though wasted on us.
As I stiffened further in my chair and stifled the urge to box the young braggart's ears, I noticed both Miss Thurlow open her mouth to defend my companion, only for Lady Margaret's pointedly loud cough to catch her attention, and as the auburn haired woman looked over at her, she caught the shake of her friend's head, and closed her mouth. Though her usually warm grey eyes now had a sharp steely look to them.
Holmes turned his eyes leftwards towards our provocateur. "I am not with the police, sir," he replied easily.
"Indeed?" Lynley intoned, as he supped his wine. "My apologies...I tend not to read such escapism as appears in such publications that your friend's literary endeavours appear in." A insulting smirk formed on his mouth. "So, you are not a professional then? More an amateur who sells his skills…a tradesman, if you will? My, my," he turned to Messrs Cobb and Parry, "we are even more egalitarian then we thought, are we not?" Several quiet chuckles and smiles occurred around, as my napkin was fisted unseen in my hand in annoyance.
"You are quite right, Mr. Lynley. I am a tradesman…after a fashion," Holmes replied. "Though I tend to trade other's freedom for their imprisonment. And I too am most egalitarian...high or low born it matters little. In fact," he continued, taking a sip of his own claret, "I tend to take the greatest pleasure in dealing with those who abuse their privileged situations...and others. As for why I am here? It is at your father's instigation. And I learned long ago not to assume that everything is as it first appears to be, either in an investigation or in life. For instance..." His head inclined in the direction of a large landscape painting hanging on the wall behind the Viscount. "That appears to be an original Constable, but is in fact a rather good copy." Our heads all turned to look, as Holmes continued, "As is the fake Faberge pin you are wearing in your cravat, sir."
The young man dropped his head to his chest rapidly, and glanced up as everyone within earshot, apart from Holmes who had quietly returned to his meal, turned to stare at the cravat pin. Flushing under the gaze of the friends who had heard, and to whom he had obviously told it was real, Lynley's eyes shot another glare at my colleague, before he grabbed his knife and fork to return to his meal, red faced and carving his food viciously. I must admit to repressing a rather pleased smile at the young braggart's discomfort and ire, and as I cast a quick glance to my left saw Miss Thurlow and Lady Margaret both trying to do the same, though Lady Margaret's was less concealed.
The meal continued with relative uneventfullness for the next while, with George Lynley washing his embarrassment away in even more wine, and his close attention disgracefully now turned to the lady seated up the table from him beside his father, their glances and smiles whenever his father's attention was distracted so obvious as to remind one of a husband and wife...while his true wife sat ignored beside him. Finally the humiliation proved too much for Claire Lynley, and she excused herself quickly by claiming illness and bolted from the table before her father-in-law could enquire after her. Rather than showing any guilt, her husband's eyes glowered after her as if it was her behaviour rather than his that should be admonished.
As dessert ended and coffee was served, the topic turned to the hunt the following day, and it was not long before Lynley's attentions turned in our direction once more, though this time to me. "Tell me...Doctor..." He peered down the table at me. "Do you ride?"
I glanced up from my glass with some surprise at his address. "Yes, but not as much as I would like, I am afraid," I replied neutrally, not wishing to aggravate the man nor engage him in active conversation.
"Will you be joining us in the hunt tomorrow?" he asked, the scepticism dripping from his voice as he pushed his dessert away from him.
"No, I am afraid not," I answered, carefully containing my irritation.
"Come, Doctor!" he proclaimed, leaning on the table to see me better, his tone now openly mocking. "I'm sure you would look quite the sight on a horse!"
"Looking for someone to take the focus off your poor seat are you, George?" said another male voice, quiet and controlled from my left. All eyes in the vicinity of our seats turned to the voice, to see Mr. Yeates picking up his newly poured coffee and gradually turning his eyes across the table at his old friend, his face placid but his gaze sharp, though beside Lynley, Yeates's young bride's expression was one of mortification.
"What was that, Yeates?" George replied, the drinking he had done causing him to be louder than ever, and drawing more eyes in his direction.
Yeates went to reiterate his comment, but saw his wife's face and dropped his head, the words dying in his throat. "Nothing," he murmured, "just a jest, George."
Lynley, however, was not in the mood to let it go. "Oh...a jest, Yeates!" he snorted. "Like your riding skills, you mean."
Yeates said nothing, merely picked up his spoon and stirred his coffee, clearly regretting opening his mouth at all.
The Viscount looked over at his son. "George? Martin was joshing with you. There is no need to..." he started.
However, his elder son rapidly rose to his feet, startling all with the suddenness of his movements, his heavy chair scraping loudly across the floor and saved from toppling to the ground only by the quick reflexes of a footman, as he stared down the table at his old school friend. "You believe yourself to be a better horseman than I. Don't you, Yeates! Ever since you gained those hunt collars in Galway and Winchester and I didn't," he spat, lowering the goblet of wine he held from his snarling angry mouth. There was silence around the table which only seemed to heighten his anger. "You mean to insult me, sir!" he accused, slamming the glass down so hard the stem broke and wine was spilled everywhere. "You believe your precious hunt collars make you a better rider than I!"
We could clearly see Yeates's jaw working to stay clenched and silent, conflict clear in his eyes, and his appearance that of a man who had been provoked several times of late. He too rose to his feet, though his voice as quiet as his friend's was loud. "No, sir," he said, drawing himself up. "I believe it, because I am a better rider than you."
Holmes sat back and placed his napkin on the table, folding his arms, as he watched the scenario unfold with interest. The rest of the table was more obviously agog, until an autocratic voice demanded, "George Lynley, sit down this instant, and stop behaving like an uncivilised fishwife!" No one was more surprised at the table than the Duchess of Monmouth, when her grandnephew completely ignored her.
Lynley's eyes narrowed at his friend in front of the increasingly stunned assembly. "Is that so?" he murmured, his suddenly quiet tone worrying me far more than his previous bellowing and growling. "Very well, Mr. Yeates," said he. "Let us prove it, shall we? You and I shall race through Lucifer's Playground tomorrow. The winner takes all bragging rights, a thousand pounds, and the other's best Hunter besides," he challenged.
Yeates returned his gaze, albeit from a greater height. "Done." he replied quietly.
Lavinia Yeates rose to her feet in immediate objection. "Are you both mad? Lucifer's Playground is no racecourse! You may risk your own neck, George, but my husband shall do no such thing!" she interjected immediately.
Yeates turned his eyes to his wife. "Lavinia..." he said with a soft tone, beginning to try to explain, as men must to women, why they must accept such a challenge.
"No, Martin!" she insisted. "You will not! I will leave tonight if you tell me you will persevere on such a thing! I know there have been deaths in there, and I will not see you dead for crashing through that hellhole on some quest to assuage your pride."
Yeates became all too conscious of the eyes on him, but none more so then the twin sets of his wife's and his friend's. If there was conflict in his face before, it was as nothing to what passed over his face then, but eventually his shoulders slumped. "Very well," he acceded to his wife's wishes. It did not, however, end there.
"No, sir!" Lynley shook his head adamantly. "You've accepted the wager, Yeates, there are plenty here who heard it! If you retire from it now you concede the bet."
"What?" gasped I, unable to stay silent a moment longer, rising from my seat at such unsporting behaviour. "That is grossly unfair, Mr. Lynley."
"Indeed," said the Colonel, standing and backing my words from the far end of the table beside the Duchess, the acoustics in the now silent dining hall carrying everything. "You cannot hold the man to such a wager when the lady asks him not to."
"It is not my fault he is so subjected to his wife's whims," Lynley returned, folding his arms across his chest. "Nor that he is a coward willing to hide behind his wife's skirts…far too scared to do what he knows he must. He is not the man I used to know." His smile grew a little and took on a decidedly malicious tone. "Though his wife might think that's a good thing…"
Yeates eyes locked to his instantly. "I'm no coward," he rumbled.
"No?" Lynley smirked, and walked across the room. "You have already backed out of two tests that would indicate otherwise. Let us test that theory one final time, shall we?" he said, walking to the wall behind him, and my eyes widened as he took down the two rapiers that hung there. Crossing back over, he proffered the end of one to Yeates. "We fence. The first to draw a blow loses. Don't fight me…" he issued the ultimatum, "and I shall increase the forfeit." His words were ominous indeed, and Yeates stiffened noticeably, his eyes glancing to his wife while my mind immediately went to what it was Miss Thurlow had overheard a few nights ago. Lynley had something over him, make no mistake.
"Don't do this, George," Yeates whispered after a moment. "Please…you know I am no swordsman. I concede you are the better man in that…just…take the wager!" he insisted.
"Not enough," the insufferable little bully snapped intent on inflicting a humiliation. "Not anymore."
"This is insanity!" Lavinia Yeates exclaimed. "Your Lordship!" she appealed to his father, who was entirely taken aback by all this.
"George," he called over, as he rose unsteadily to his feet, "this has gone far enough! Put down that sword!"
"I shall not, sir!" his son blazed. "He impugned my honour, and has reneged on a fair wager…I shall have satisfaction."
"Then have it from me, sir," Holmes cut in, rising from the table. "If Mr. Yeates will allow me to step in as his second, that is."
"Holmes, my dear fellow, what do you think you are doing?" I asked with amazement, as I turned to him.
"Abiding by the rules of fair play, Watson," he replied, smiling at me, as myself, Lady Margaret, and Miss Thurlow all stared at him in shock. "Mr. Lynley has exerted his right to satisfaction. It is a duel not to the death but to the first hit, and is therefore not illegal, though technically the weapons should be tipped. And in keeping with the rules, Mr. Yeates is entitled to a second if he is unable to participate, as he is clearly not." He inclined his head towards Mrs. Yeates. "I am under no such restrictions, and may step in."
"Fencing is a gentleman's game, sir," George Lynley sneered. "I don't fight just anyone."
"I am a fair fencer, I believe you'll find, Mr. Lynley," Holmes said, reaching over Mrs. Yeates, and taking the still outstretched rapier before the young man could withdraw it, examining the weapon carefully before gazing down at the smaller man. "I have won an award or two in my time," he commented with a genial smile.
"Have you, by Jove?" the young bulldog snarled, suddenly eager to take revenge for the earlier verbal ripostes thrust at him by my friend. "Very well, Mr. Holmes, let us see what you are capable of."
"No, sir," Martin Yeates voiced from across the table. "I cannot let you fight in my place."
"You must either fight, Mr. Yeates," Holmes replied, "or pay the forfeit. You cannot do the former…and I have the distinct impression the forfeit is something you cannot truly afford." His words to him were earnest, as his eyes met the younger man's, and they held each other's gaze for a moment, before Yeates nodded slowly.
"I am in your debt, sir," he said gratefully, only to have Holmes's smile grow broader as he flexed the rapier.
"Hopefully, Mr. Yeates, when this is done, you shall be in no one's debt this night," my friend returned, before pausing and swishing the weapon in the air a little with a thoughtful expression on his face. "That is, providing I do not prove too rusty with the rapier. The sabre is my preferred weapon, I must admit." He glanced over at Lynley. "As it is a cold night, would the foyer be to your satisfaction?"
"Maxwell!" the Duchess barked, rising to her feet. "Stop this at once!"
"George!" The Viscount finally found his voice, his son's behaviour, something he had obviously overlooked and made great licence for before, now impossible to defend. "Mr. Holmes is a guest in this house here at my request! You shall not fight him."
"It is quite all right, Your Lordship," Holmes responded. "A little exercise after a meal is not unwelcome…and I would rather relish the chance to try out such a fine weapon, and put some lessons into play." His comments left me unsure whether he meant his own fencing lessons or another type all together.
With a nod of his head, Lynley gestured towards the door, and Holmes moved around the table and out into the wide foyer beyond the doors. The entire room was on its feet and moving after them in moments, myself included as I rushed to Holmes's side while he took up position on one side of the foyer. Removing his dress suit jacket, thereby leaving him in his white shirt, tie, and waistcoat, he hung it upon the handle of the expertly built serving door built flush against the wall as if to be part of it, and began to stretch and limber up as we were joined by Miss Thurlow and Lady Margaret who broke ranks from the assembled audience.
"Ladies," he greeted them briefly, concentrating on a series of thrusts. "My apologies for my shirtsleeves."
Lady Margaret stared at him for a moment, clearly impressed by his moves, while Miss Thurlow appeared rather nervous...but there was something else though that flashed in her eyes as she watched him, if only for the briefest of moments, before it was gone, and she moved briskly to my side, her friend in tow, while I frowned a little, my mind darting to my Mary and her Yuletide observations on her friend's level of regard for mine.
"Is Mr. Holmes's skill as good as he claims?" the raven haired lady asked, her expression one of curiosity.
"I have not known him very long, Maggie," Miss Thurlow piped up beside her. "However, he is not one to exaggerate his skills. If he says he is capable, then it is a fact, nothing more."
I found myself nodding in agreement at her words. "Indeed, Lady Margaret. I have only known Holmes to be wrong less than a handful of times and in none of them was he overestimating himself. He has a strict habit of stating the facts, and not letting either modesty or exaggerations get in the way."
"Well then," the Lady replied with no small conviction, "I hope he thrashes the braggart."
Finishing his exercises, Holmes turned to face us. "This evening is proving to be even more eventful then I foresaw." He gave us a bright smile, and concern that he might in fact be taking this too flippantly consumed me at his comment.
"Holmes, Lynley is not to be taken lightly. You may have the height advantage, but he is aggressive, well trained from the sounds of it...not to mention strong, agile, and the younger man," I admonished him.
"And most inebriated," Lady Margaret chimed in.
My friend merely nodded. "That should only serve to work in my favour, Lady Margaret, I assure you." His eyebrow arched as he regarded me. "Watson really...you make me sound positively archaic and feeble," he sniffed, before smiling at me and patting my shoulder. "Not to worry." His smile only grew wider as I huffed.
Miss Thurlow took a step forward, her expression one of concern but supportive. "Good luck, Mr. Holmes," she bade him. "I have no doubt you shall emerge having taught that bully a lesson or two."
"We shall see, eh?" he enthused, and flexed his rapier once more, before turning to face Lynley, who was standing on the far side of the large hall with his own entourage, and speaking animatedly with Jackson Cobb, the lithe willowy man with a set of the sharpest most angular features I had ever seen. The Colonel broke away from the main group to our right as Holmes moved across the floor, his opponent crossing to meet him. Taking charge of the niceties, the Colonel set the two combatants, reiterated the rules, and began the match.
It began cagily enough with the two men gauging each other, but George Lynley was nothing if not an impatient young man, and it was soon obvious that he would drive the fight. His tactic, being shorter in stature, was to feint and dodge inside Holmes's guard to get at him, but my colleague took all such attacks quite calmly and repulsed them, and then on the third, with a quick bend of his long arm, and a nonchalant flick of his wrist, the heir of Pendragon House was disarmed...his sword lying on the floor by his feet.
A ripple of applause ran through the bulk of the onlookers, and stepping away, Holmes saluted him and indicated for him to pick up his weapon. Frowning and watching him as he bent, while ignoring the murmurs of the assembly, Lynley picked up his weapon and began again, his attack fast and strong, as he made use of his power and quick feet, his sword passing within an inch of Holmes's shirt front, as he drove him back. A smile slipped over Lynley's face as he did the same twice more, forcing my friend onto the back foot more and more with aggressive strokes and power.
And then, quite suddenly, Lynley's sword was by his feet again...another flick of the wrist had it flying out of his grasp and into the air, sending him scrambling away as it descended with a clatter to the marbled floor.
Holmes peeled away, his face impassive, as he saluted again, affording the young man the chance to pick up the weapon once more, and moving back to an en garde stance as his red faced opponent scooped it up, his embarrassment manifesting itself upon noting one or two smiles among the general audience. The anger grew more and more evident on his face.
Lynley raised his sword to meet Holmes's weapon, and in a flash the sword skittered across the ground from his grasp once more, sliding to a halt at his father's feet. This time the titters of laughter at Lynley's expense were audible, as Holmes put down his sword and leaned on the top lightly. "Shall we continue, Mr Lynley?" he enquired politely.
Lynley did not answer...his face red with mortification and anger at being so easily out manoeuvred, he marched across the floor and grabbed the weapon from his father's hands, before turning, crossing back towards Holmes, and then attacking him without moving back to the prescribed duelling stance, in an attempt to take the older man by surprise. The attack was concerted and furious, Lynley's speed and power fuelled by his anger, and Holmes was driven back again. However, this time Lynley evaded his parry and spun around inside Holmes's reach and out of sight of the Colonel, our judge, and to the amazement and audible gasps of all who could see, he quite clearly drove his elbow into my colleague's stomach.
"That's completely illegal!" Lady Margaret exclaimed, audible to many in the crowd, and as the Colonel had been unsighted, she turned and marched towards our host with a determined expression on her elegant features.
I took a step forward, fully intending to do God knows what, when a hand on my arm restrained me. With a frown, I turned my head to face Miss Thurlow, whose anger filled expression mirrored my own, as she shook her head slowly, turning her eyes back to Holmes. Before Lady Margaret could call for this to be ended once and for all, or I could do more, Lynley pressed his advantage and rolling away whipped out his sword towards Holmes who was bent almost double trying to catch his breath, whose rapier only just parried the blow as it came down to strike his shoulder. Looking up at the young man, his voice was a wheeze, as he cradled his stomach with his free arm. "An interesting...manoeuvre...Mr. Lynley...one that seems...to have...escaped the...manuals I studied."
Determined to strike the blow to end this, Lynley raised his weapon again...and in doing so left himself totally unguarded, sure that Holmes was in no position to do anything but defend himself. A moment later, he became another of those who made the mistake of underestimating my friend and colleague...for instead of striking his own blow, Lynley suddenly found himself staring down at the neat slice across the stomach of his silk shirt...a thin line of red seeping through from where Holmes had almost surgically nicked him, causing the merest amount of damage that could be done.
"A hit!" I cried with a broad grin, taking advantage of my Shakespeare. "A palpable hit!"
"George!" a woman's voice exclaimed from the crowd, causing not only my head but several others to turn as Miss de Courcy darted from the crowd before remembering herself.
Viscount Lynley, who had seen his son's illegal actions, shot his eyes from the blond woman to his son; the stare he gave them was shamefaced and angry.
Holmes straightened and looked at the bemused bleeding man before him, his eyes flickering to the now knowing look in the Viscount's eyes. "I trust you are satisfied now, Mr. Lynley?" he enquired, before turning and walking back to us, as he nursed his stomach still, his expression somewhat rueful as he approached.
Miss Thurlow crossed over to his side as rapidly as decorum would allow her, taking my friend's arm and indicating a nearby chair. "You did wonderfully, Mr. Holmes, but perhaps you should sit for a moment?" she suggested with a tone that was utterly respectful and clearly admiring.
"Thank you, Miss Thurlow," he acquiesced with a nod, allowing her to guide him. "I believe I shall."
Following behind, I watched as he sank wearily into a chair. "Good show, old man," I congratulated him. "His actions were deplorable...utterly unsportsmanlike."
"Well done, sir..." The Colonel enthused, as he approached us. "A capital bit of fencing, some of the best I've seen. My apologies, my wife informs me that I missed your opponent's illegal action." He frowned deeply at that. "I would've awarded you the match had I known," he admitted, shooting a dark look at the young man across the room. "George always an arrogant boy...but he's become a complete cad this past year or two since he met..." He paused, as his eyes moved to take in Alexandra de Courcy, who was trying to melt away from the Viscount's glare. Turning back to Holmes, he shook his head. "These fencing awards you won, sir, were they at school then?"
"In a manner of speaking, Colonel," Holmes replied, looked up at him from his crouched position on the seat. "I spent a great deal of my formative years in France...in Montpellier to be exact. While there I took fencing lessons with Maestro Vigeant. Perhaps you might have heard of him?"
The Colonel's eyes widened considerably. "Arsene Vigeant? The headmaster of the newly refurbished Académie de Escrime? The famed fencing academy?"
"The same," my colleague confirmed with a nod, as he sat up slowly. "I was fortunate to attend his private school for a while whilst young. He was the best, and my father insisted on the best," he admitted.
The older man began to chuckle. "I should have opened a book on you, sir, and gotten myself some money for the evening."
Holmes smiled wryly, as he rose to his feet. "Oh I think there's been enough wagering for one evening, don't you, Colonel?" he replied, as Mr. and Mrs. Yeates approached him, and thanked him profusely for his actions, to which he demurred.
Miss Thurlow, for her part, merely watched the proceedings around her while keeping one rather protective eye on our mutual friend. Her expression was utterly inscrutable, even though I could almost hear the gears turn in her mind, however, upon catching my eye, she smiled ironically and made her way over to me.
"He said he fenced, but I had no idea it was learned at so prestigious a school," she said to me, her voice low. "And in France..." She sighed almost wistfully. "I have always dreamed of visiting there...but I never had the means. Now, I simply don't have the time." She glanced up at me and chuckled. "He is rather a surprising man...you think you have figured him out, but..." she trailed off with a shake of her head.
"Indeed, I have known him for some years now, faced life and death with the man, and yet, I know little about him personally," I agreed. "I knew he had a French grandmother...but not that he'd actually lived in France."
"Ladies and Gentlemen," came the loud voice of our host echoing off the high vaulted ceiling of the foyer, catching all our attention and focusing it on the seething Viscount. "I apologise for…" he glared at his eldest son, "the manner in which the contest was concluded. And I would like to take the opportunity to announce regarding the hunt tomorrow, that to avoid any more…foolishness…Lucifer's Playground will be off limits to all riders save the Hunt Master and hounds should our quarry divert there. Should that be the case, all riders will ride around the ridge and take up chase on the far side." His eyes took in the crowd as a whole. "Now…perhaps we should all repair back to the dining room to finish our coffee, and continue our evening?" he invited them, urging them back in, and stopping only his eldest son with a baleful look in his eye and clear gesticulations that made it obvious that he wished to speak to him alone immediately.
"It seems," I said, taking stock of the distant exchange, "that perhaps this evening has had one advantageous outcome. The scales appear to have fallen from the Viscount's eyes with regards to his son."
Holmes drew on his dress tails slowly, taking in the dark scowling visage of George Lynley as he trudged away to receive treatment in advance of his father's lecture. "With a personality as apparently vindictive as Mr. Lynley's, Watson, whether it is advantageous remains to be seen."
The following morning, Holmes and I made for Lynmouth under the guidance of our Mr. Cuddy, who exchanged much near unintelligible banter with Holmes on the subject of the previous night.
On arriving at the station, the arresting Inspector, a man by the name of Barnsley, was so stunned by our unexpected arrival that he had taken us to the cell of the arrested valet before even thinking to ask why we wanted to speak to him. Sensing that any indication that we were second guessing his arrest would result in our Inspector becoming disobliging, I slipped into my most diplomatic of modes, and assured him that we were here for the hunt primarily, and were only visiting the valet, Pearson, to assuage some slight quirk of the Viscount's, which allowed the Inspector to believe that we too felt it was a mere foible of the aristocracy. Eager to find himself on the approving side of Sherlock Holmes, the Inspector afforded us a private interview with the valet, just as we hoped.
Albert Pearson, a man in his early forties, proved to be a most open and garrulous individual. Years in service had refined his accent, but his nervousness and eagerness to prove himself innocent to us allowed his cockney origins to slip through. He admitted without prompting his youthful involvement with a gang of housebreakers, having fallen in with them in an attempt to help pay off the debt over his mother's head when his alcoholic father had left them in penury. Hoping to avoid her being sent to debtor's prison, he had himself ended up in jail. His loyalty to the Viscount who had afforded him a rare second chance was obvious, and Holmes had to calm him when his indignation at the idea that he would repay his employer by stealing from his guests became too great to bear.
Pearson recounted his evening to us in great detail, starting with his laying out the Viscount's garments for the evening, and attending outside the dining room during dinner as he always did in case His Lordship required anything. During his time there, he confirmed what Phillip Lynley had said, that all the gentleman bar the Viscount had left the room at one time or another, of them, only Colonel Hapsworth and Mr. Yeates had not gone upstairs, the Colonel having left to fetch his cigarette case from his coat, and Mr. Yeates to head to the foyer and the front entrance for some air. Of those that had gone upstairs, Mr. Parry had been gone the longest, and was met on his return at the bottom of the stairs by Mr. Cobb, only to oddly head straight upstairs again, this time returning straight away with a bottle of single malt whisky he had evidently forgotten. When asked about the movement of the ladies, Pearson said that he could attest to their comings and goings, due to the drawing room where they had resided being located near to where he was.
On attending the Viscount once the ladies and gentleman had rejoined, he had made his employer's favourite drink, his lordship being so vociferous in his praise of his bartending abilities that he had demonstrated the recipe to the gentlemen as they had gathered around the bar to watch him, and that had been the last official action of his evening.
When the subject of his walk in the garden was broached, Pearson admitted to a bad smoking habit, something with which Holmes could entirely sympatise, and the valet recounted that as it had been a mild night, he had spent some time out there, until he had heard the furore at the house, and upon returning immediately, found all the servants being rounded up.
When asked whether only the servants had been searched, Pearson admitted that the Inspector had not seemed to consider the possibility of the gentry being involved, and besides at that point, they had discovered the necklace in the inner pocket of his uniform jacket, and his perplexed look as he recounted that was plain to see on his face.
"Mr. Pearson…" Holmes reached into his pocket, taking out his cigarette case, and offering the incarcerated man a Woodbine which was accepted eagerly. "Did you have your jacket off at anytime prior to being searched?" he enquired quietly, before lighting both their cigarettes.
"No sir, Mr. Holmes, sir," the valet replied. "As I say, it was a mild night 'n no mistake but not so mild as all that."
My colleague nodded as he took that in. "I see…so you never took it off to say…sit upon the ground…or use it for someone else to do so?" he enquired slowly.
"Someone else?" Pearson repeated with a frown. "I confess, sir, to being at a loss…I was alone as I say, there was no…" He trailed off, as the indignant look returned once more. "Sir!" he gasped, rising immediately to his feet. "I'll have you know, I'm engaged to a fine respectable young widow here in Lynmouth…" Though at the thought of her, his indignation died a little, and he sagged back to his chair. "It's bad enough that she finds me in this position." He glanced up at us. "I would never dally with another girl…Molly is the only one for me," he insisted, running his hand through his dark hair in misery. "I only hope that I have not lost her over this."
"I'm sure, you will not," I consoled him as soothingly as I could, touched by the man's predicament and what to me seemed sincere affection for his fiancée.
That sincerity shone through again, as he gazed up at us. "I have not the foggiest notion of how that necklace got where it did…and had I known it was there, sirs, why would I leave it there? I ask you! Even my short acquaintance with the underworld…damnation, even common sense…would dictate that I would hide it! Gentlemen, you must believe me, I did not do it!"
"No, Mr. Pearson," Holmes said, rising to his feet, and offering him his hand, "I know you did not."
On returning to Pendragon House, we found the place was a hive of activity. The riders from around the county had begun to assemble, those travelling some distance arriving with horse boxes and others from closer in on horseback, already dressed and ready for the hunt. It was a bright sunny morning, and the gathering was taking place at the back of the house near the stables, with breakfast being served for nearly a hundred people out there, hot food and tea along with spirits to keep everyone warm as conversation and preparation went on apace.
Through it all, the Viscount in his red and the Duchess in her long black riding habit held sway, and the talk was of nothing but horses; for the time being the theft and all other goings on in the House of Lynley were quite put aside. Though we saw nothing of his brother, George Lynley was dressed and outside, a scowl on his face and intriguingly a light bandage on his right hand, as he mingled with the other guests showing off the new Hunter he had acquired specifically for the hunt. Lady Margaret was amongst those purporting to show great interest in the subject, and gave us a rather sneaky smile as we passed by with Cuddy in the dog cart, leaving us both with the impression that she was on some kind of reconnaissance mission, most probably hatched in conjunction with the redoubtable Miss Thurlow.
Martin and Lavinia Yeates were both present, and were receiving glares from Lynley that would have felled an entire regiment of men, such was the vitriol contained within them. Evidently, it was not Holmes that George had decided to take out last night's personal fiasco on, it was Yeates. Holmes's words about the vindictiveness of the likes of George Lynley rang in my ears...and the look that he was receiving from the young man was obviously having a similar effect on Yeates, who unlike his stoic wife determined to rise above Lynley's boorishness, seemed worried still.
Miss Thurlow was, of course, one of the few absentees...the other noticeable one being Claire Lynley, whom we had already spotted out walking the estate slowly climbing one of the ridges, perhaps seeming to head for a good vantage point. With everyone busy outside, Holmes didn't waste anytime in striking out for indoors as soon as we departed Mr. Cuddy's company.
Inside, it was the downstairs part of the house that was abuzz, as the servants worked at top speed to keep the new arrivals informed, provide all the services they could, and serve food and drink to those already here. It was in the midst of the hubbub that we spied Miss Thurlow above on the landing watching, and made for the upstairs part of the house quickly.
"Miss Thurlow," Holmes greeted her on arrival by her side, "I see downstairs is well occupied, might I assume from your presence here that things up here remain…quiet?"
A tiny, and may I say, almost mischievous smile formed on her lips. "Indeed," she confirmed in an equally low tone, nodding to each of us in greeting as she spoke. "And I have taken the liberty in enlisting Maggie for the role of lookout. Up until the hunt begins, should anyone from that wing make to return inside, she will immediately alert us and attempt to distract them."
"Ahh..." I breathed with a chuckle, "that explains the most charming conspiratorial smile."
She nodded, her own smile turning rather wry. "Not that I could have stopped her from aiding. She has a will of pure iron, I fear."
"And if I were to suggest you go to join her at this point, Miss Thurlow," Holmes enquired. "Would your will to remain be any the less unbending?"
I raised an eyebrow at what my colleague was getting at, and remembered what it was I had meant to say to her the previous night. "No indeed, Miss Thurlow," I said urgently. "You must not think of such a thing as remaining with us. It is one thing for us to get caught trespassing in another's room, we are what we are after all, but you are a lady and a guest of this house, you should not risk it."
Her jaw set in such a way, that I instantly knew that my words were of no avail. "I appreciate your concern, Doctor, and under normal circumstances I may indeed agree with you. However, the moment I was asked to send that telegram to you both, I became involved. If I can aid in this search, then I shall do so. Besides, time is short, and three pairs of eyes will accomplish the task much more readily than two." Her words were in the same soft voice, but there was such a strength and certainty to them, as well as an almost rigid element, that it made me wonder if this was the voice she used when faced with the board at her father's company or one of his foundations.
"Just as I suspected," Holmes said to me with a slight shake of his head. "Come, Watson. Miss Thurlow has an 'agenda' and there is little that dissuades a person of business from their agendas," he teased her, as he turned on his heel and began to walk down the corridor towards the guest wing. "You should know, Miss Thurlow," he informed her as he walked, "that our trip to visit the valet, Pearson, dispelled what little doubt I had that the man is innocent. He is guilty of nothing more than unfortunate timing."
"Indeed," she replied, moving briskly next to me, but having to take two steps to keep up with one of his long strides. "Have you formulated a conclusion how he came to have the jewellery on his person then?"
"I have indeed!" he responded with a tight smile, as he strode on. "And for the future of Mr. Pearson's engagement to his young widow, it is a happy occurrence that it does not feature a second female personage. I have questions for you, Miss Thurlow. Firstly, what do you know of Mr. Cobb and Mr. Parry?"
Her forehead creased a little in thought. "I confess, Mr. Holmes, very little," she apologised. "Only that they are friends of George Lynley's from London. Mr. Parry's father is with the Home Office…Mr Cobb…" Her brow furrowed deeper. "I believe his family is in shipping." She smiled a little, as she continued, "He went to Oxford with Mr. Lynley apparently, all though Maggie believes that he is not as well bred as he seems." She chuckled a little at Holmes's look. "I confess, Mr. Holmes, that Maggie believes that of most people, high or low born. She judges by manners rather than birth..." she explained with clear affection toward her friend, before frowning once more. "Besides, it can scarce be any other way if he's a friend of Mr. Lynley's given his outrageous stance on 'common' people."
"I see," Holmes pondered with a nod. "Let me ask you something else, Miss Thurlow. After the men rejoined you the night of the theft...the Duchess complained about their bragging giving her a headache. She did, in fact, seem somewhat peeved by their brashness. Might it be a safe assumption to make on my part that the Duchess's headache stemmed more from the fact that she was attempting to drive the conversation, only to be drowned out by the men?"
The wry smile once again appeared on her face, as she nodded. "Yes, I believe that is quite a safe assumption. Her Ladyship is most certainly the type of person who likes to lead rather than be led by a conversation. She had spent many a moment recounting various anecdotes as well as singing the praises of her late husband. It is most obvious that she misses him a great deal, for she spoke to anyone who would listen of the times they had shared, what he had given her, how he the best and finest of men..." She trailed off and shook her head. "I understand she is grieving, but..."
Holmes stopped suddenly by a door, and turned to her. "And during her outpouring of praise for the late Duke, did she talk specifically about the jewellery he had given her and her attachment to it because of him?"
I watched her eyes widen ever so slightly, as she began to follow, just as I was, where my companion was leading with his questions. "I do believe she did," she replied. "Though I must admit I took no notice at the time. She mentioned their quality, fineness, and worth...and some of the circumstances in which he gave them to her."
"Sentimental all, no doubt?" he asked. "Anniversaries, personal mementos, and the like?"
"For the most part, yes," she answered readily. "She was very proud of them and all aspects surrounding them."
"Then we have solved the mystery of the theft, and how the jewels ended up where they did," Holmes announced, as he turned to the door we were standing beside. "All that remains to ascertain is why it occurred in the first place," he said with the smallest of frowns, before opening the door to the bedroom, and marching into the room of Miss Alexandra de Courcy.
I could not contain my surprise as I followed in, checking to make sure that we had not been observed, before following my friend's movements as he moved further into the large guest room. "I don't understand, Holmes," I confessed. "As obvious and unladylike as Miss de Courcy is, are you seriously suggesting she stole the necklace?"
"I am suggesting nothing, Watson," he replied, his eyes scrutinising the room carefully. "Miss Thurlow, would you kindly check the writing desk for letters or papers?" He pointed at it briskly with one long finger. "Miss Thurlow was quite correct when she suggested previously that the motivating factor behind all the events of her stay here was money. We have thievery, blackmail, and even adultery all driven by money."
"Adultery?" I queried with confusion, as the young woman quickly made her way over to the desk and began to methodically sort through the various papers on it.
"Most assuredly," Holmes agreed with a nod of his head. "I doubt that Mr. Lynley cares anymore for Alexandra de Courcy then he does for his wife. We are here not to prove her part in the theft, but rather to discover her role in how and why that theft came to be," he explained, as he moved to her bedside locker and began to search.
Frowning at Holmes lack detail about what was going through his mind, I nevertheless crossed the room to search her wardrobe on his instruction, drawing out her expensive cases and bags, and starting to look through them. After a good five minutes of some rather fruitless searching on my part, I heard a Miss Thurlow inhale sharply, and on moving to her side, I saw her reading through a letter, before with a smile and nod of satisfaction, she handed it over to me for my perusal. "Mr. Holmes," she called, beckoning him over. "I believe I have found your clue."
Indeed, she had. For I was reading a letter from the banking firm of Jasper & Wright that clearly stated that a loan that Miss de Courcy had been granted for some £6,000 some eight months prior was now in fact due for immediate repayment, and if it was not settled within the next couple of weeks, the bank would be forced to contact her father instead.
Holmes hastened from his post to take the letter, and scanned it quickly. "Nicely done, Miss Thurlow," he murmured. "Nicely done, indeed."
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she replied, a rather pink hue spreading over her ivory cheeks.
"Six thousand pounds!" I hissed, my mind trying to place this latest piece of Holmes's puzzle in its proper place. "She is in severe financial distress," I theorised with the data we had. "Her father is her guarantor…"
"Ah ah!" Holmes held up a warning finger with a smile, and after a moment, I nodded slowly and began again.
"Her father is apparently her guarantor…" I corrected with a slow smile. "Might she have taken the necklace after all...hoping to pay back the loan she had taken out? Driven to it perhaps because her father was somehow unaware of her having taken the loan despite his being guarantor? The necklace would certainly be worth something akin to that," I broached as a hypothesis.
"Or blackmail?" Miss Thurlow mused beside me. "This letter does seem to explain why Maggie heard her saying she would get her due. Perhaps she asked Mr. Lynley to pay back the loan money she had taken out, and used without her father's knowing, and he would or could not pay…and she threatened to expose their affair publicly?"
Holmes looked up from the letter, neatly returning it to its position where Miss Thurlow had taken it from, and flashed me a quick smile. "You're coming along, Watson. Not quite right...but not quite wrong either," he replied, before turning his attention to Miss Thurlow, to whom he gave a respectful glance. "And an admirable and logical connection, Miss Thurlow. Though again a little off the mark. Take your data and reconsider…taking into account that their personal relationship does not seem to have ended as it would have done if Miss de Courcy was merely blackmailing him into paying her debts...there is a little more for you to uncover yet," he said to both of us, but before we could say more, he was back across the room tidying up what he had disturbed and heading for the hallway again. "Onwards, ladies and gentlemen."
Stepping out into the hallway, he suddenly took a sharp turn right, heading for the family quarters. "We have seen the mistress...now to attend to the wife," he told us. "While I easily ascertained our fellow guests' quarters, I took the liberty of enquiring of one of the servants last night which were the suite of rooms belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Lynley." He stopped by a set of large double doors, and opened them. "Time to take a closer look at another lady's jewels."
Moving into the room, Holmes gauged the layout of the suite, and led us into the bedroom of Claire Lynley, his eyes scanning the room until they fell on the dresser and the jewellery box thereon. Stopping by the dresser, he bent and touched the ground, his fingertips bringing up something like shards of porcelain, and upon glancing around, found a discoloured damp patch on the carpet which he also tested with his fingertips, before sniffing them lightly. Rising up with a slight frown on his face, he turned his attention back to the box, though on trying it, it proved to be locked.
"Damnation," Holmes muttered, before turning in the direction of our female companion with a light frown. "Your pardon, Miss Thurlow," he said swiftly, inclining his head in apology for his swearing in front of her.
"No offence taken, Mr. Holmes, I assure you," she replied, frowning at the box herself.
Reaching into his coat pocket a moment later, he extracted a set of jemmies or lock picks that left my eyebrows in my hair. "Holmes..." I murmured, "you don't intend to break into it, surely! What on earth do you expect to find in that poor, unfortunate girl's jewellery box that will tie in to the case?"
However, my colleague bent over and began to work on the small lock. "It's what I expect not to find, Watson..." he replied, narrowing his eyes in concentration. A few seconds later, with an alacrity that made me worry for all the secure locks in my rooms in Baker Street, the lock popped open, and with a satisfied smirk Holmes opened the jewellery box, which was quite full of some splendid pieces of jewellery, despite my friend's apparent expectations.
But rather than it fazing him, Holmes's smirk remained where it was, as his hand delved into the jewels on display, and, taking out one fine looking diamond brooch belonging to the young heiress and unfortunate bride of George Lynley, he held it up to the river of sunlight that came through the nearby window. "Paste." he announced quietly, and put it down, picking up another and another, each one getting the same conclusion. "All paste...and all forgeries..." he concluded, as he rooted through the box. "Give or take one or two of the smaller items."
"Just like Mr. Lynley's cravat pin," I breathed, remembering Holmes's retort at dinner the previous night.
"Exactly!" Holmes clapped me on the shoulder. "All forgeries...pretending to be otherwise."
"Forgeries…" Miss Thurlow's eyes lit up, as she looked up at me. "He's been selling them off, and replacing everything. Selling his wife's jewellery, his own valuables, probably some of the estates goods if he can…" She turned to my friend. "Even borrowing from his mistress!" she exclaimed. "She's not blackmailing him…she just wants back what she gave him before her father finds out."
Holmes frowned a moment later, as his hands touched something in the box that was not jewellery. Drawing forth a crumpled piece of paper, he unfolded it, and his frown deepened. "Ah…I had assumed that only Mr. Lynley knew these were fakes," he said of the jewels. "However why hide this in your jewellery box where your husband might delve...unless you knew he no longer had any interest in either its contents...or you?"
He handed us the paper, and on opening it again, I read it aloud, "Worry not...you will have your due and more. She will not stand in your way much longer...her usefulness is at an end. I will..." I paused for a moment. "There is a bad spelling error here," I noted. "It must have been discarded for a fresh one."
"And found by Mrs. Lynley," Holmes concluded. "It appears Mr. Lynley is as blasé about his written mistakes as he is about his personal ones."
"It looks fresh," I noted. "The ink I mean."
"Poor Claire," Miss Thurlow whispered beside me. "To be married to such a man...to be brutalised, cuckolded, and to have all she has stolen from her and used for his debauched ways."
"It sounds as if he means to put her to one side..." I hedged with a frown, thinking on his reported brutality, "one way or another."
My friend nodded in agreement. "It may well be that Mrs. Lynley is operating under the same opinion now...as you say the ink is new...a few days at most." He reflected on that for a moment. "We should speak to her," he said briskly. "Ascertain what she knows about her jewellery collection and how long it's been since her husband exhausted that avenue for funds." He turned to me after closing the case and leading us all back out into the main room. "She was up near the first ridge, was she not? Setting to watch the hunt?"
With a nod of my head, I began to move through the room, when I noticed a display cabinet to our right, that was ornately decorated, glass covered, and unlocked. Veering towards it as we walked towards the door, I stopped dead when I noticed what was in it. An entire collection of knives and pistols from around the place...but what attracted my attention most of all was a beautiful, hand carved, mahogany box which lay open inside, exposing the thick purple velvet...and the indentation left there by the gun that should have been occupying its place, but was not. "Holmes," I said quietly, drawing his attention to it.
As he and Miss Thurlow turned back, I gazed at them with anxiety. "Everyone has their boiling point," I murmured, "even the timid. Perhaps...just to be safe, we had better move to talk to Mrs. Lynley quickly."
Authors' Notes: Hello there! Okay all, the conclusion of the mystery, but not the tale, will be up next week sometime. :D However, I hope you all continue to enjoy this latest chapter! Thank you all again for all the reads and/or reviews, we appreciate each and every one. Grins Okay, to answer a couple quick questions: 1) That snaffu on chapter four has been corrected, thank you Lady Razorsharp:D 2) The Jack Russell terrier was actually a cameo of sorts of my esteemed colleague's own pet. She has a JRT, though in reality is nothing (apparently) like Prince. And we had major grins on the Mrs. Bucket analogy. We both love Hyacynth, so that gave us quite a pleased chuckle. 3) Our teaser...was exactly that...draw your own conclusions, as we are more tight lipped than the most devout secret-keeper. Plus, my co-writer has threatened me with blackmail should I divulge any secrets...heh. Well I have to fly! Thank you again to all, and see you later next week! Aeryn (of aerynfire)