There was something in the angle of his spine and in the determined concentration with which Clarence examined the two documents that almost convinced even Ida he was a distinguished graphologist. She noted the anxious yet trusting expression on Mrs Hertford's face, and inwardly forgave Clarence the earlier acting fiasco. Either he was genuinely enthralled by the two pieces of paper, or he was giving the performance of his life.
Eventually, Clarence raised his head from the desk, and spoke
'Mrs Hertford…'
'Yes?'
'It is my …professional… opinion that these pasted words you have presented me with here… ' he held up the document that Mrs Hertford had, following Ida's suggestion, made up out of lines cut from the note supposedly from her son, 'are not of the same hand as this letter, indeed, the similarities that are present would suggest to my mind an attempt to…'
With a sound that was half sigh, half groan, Mrs Hertford slipped down in the chair she had been seated in.
'Oh,' said Clarence, uselessly, 'er… Mrs Hertford?...er…Ida?'
Ida hurried over to the chair,
'She's fainted,' she announced, redundantly, 'fetch some water!'
'Er, right,' said Clarence, 'um, I've got the water I use for cleaning my paintbrushes…'
'Fetch some fresh water…'
A familiar voice cut across their conversation
'Might I be of assistance?'
Ida turned round, gaping, to see Holmes standing in the doorway
'Mr Holmes! I… what are you doing here?'
'Having received no fresh evidence from you, I was forced to trail Mrs Hertford here from her residence…'
'…look, I was going to come straight to you after this…'
'…I have no doubt, Miss Greene, but now shall we attend to the lady herself?'
'Oh, yes…'
'I would suggest transferring her to that couch over there.'
'Right…Er, Clarence?'
Clarence had been observing the proceedings with his mouth hanging open, but now he seemed to wake up,
'It's Professor Fortescue,' he hissed in a stage whisper,
'Ah, Clarence Fortescue is it?' said Holmes, 'fossil faker extraordinaire. We've met before, haven't we?'
'Uh…'
'It's alright, Clarence,' said Ida, 'I think our cover's well and truly broken.'
'Er, yes,' agreed Clarence, reddening, 'Delighted, Mr Holmes,'
'Well, Mr Fortescue, do you think you could give me a hand lifting Mrs Hertford over to that couch?'
Clarence didn't look too pleased at the prospect, but he took her ankles none the less, and Mrs Hertford was hefted like a particularly unwieldy sack of potatoes over to the faded chintz sofa.
Ida came over and tried to make her as comfortable as possible, whilst Holmes stood back, saying
'We'll let her recover in her own good time. She's got enough of a shock coming after all.'
He walked over to the window and gazed out, with his back to Ida and Clarence
'And now,' he said, 'you are going to tell me what on earth you have been doing here.'
'Well,' Ida began, 'Mrs Hertford had a letter that she thought was from her son Morris, from only a few months ago…' it might have been Ida's imagination, but she thought she saw Holmes twitch slightly at the mention of the name…'but I thought it had to be a fake, so I got Clarence to pretend to be a graphologist…'
'…a handwriting expert,' interjected Clarence helpfully
'…I know what the word means,' Holmes snapped, 'go on, Miss Greene,'
'Well, that's pretty much it, Clarence said that he thought the letter was a forgery and then she fainted…'
'Where is this letter?'
'On the desk…'
Holmes spun on his heel and stalked over to the desk. Rather than sit down, he bent right over to inspect the documents, but his head snapped up after a second
'What is this?'
'Oh…yes… I sort of suggested to Mrs Hertford that she should cut up the letter so that…'
'Cut up the letter? Miss Greene, have you no concept of the value of a piece of evidence like this?'
'I can tell you what it said…'
'Can you? Can you tell me what the paper would have said? Can you tell me what the very smell of it would have told me, what I could have gathered from the crease of the fold, from the spattering of the ink or the merest tear in the corner?'
'Um…'
'Well?'
Ida felt the hot embarrassment in her cheeks quickly turning to anger
'Well, it would probably have smelled of Mrs Hertford's perfume with a hint of leather from the writing case in which it has been kept for months, only being got out to look at in secret by a mother desperate to believe that her son is still alive – any mark or tear you may have found would probably have been down to her touching of it, and you hardly need an intellect as mighty as your own to understand what might have motivated that.'
Her heart racing, Ida tried to maintain eye contact with the detective, daring him to criticise her outburst.
'Well, Miss Greene,' he eventually said, in tones of carefully measured evenness, 'perhaps you would care to tell me, concisely, what the letter told you.'
'That this Daniel Trelawney forged a letter to Mrs Hertford implying that her son is still alive and that he is in contact with him, but that there is a need for secrecy and no one else must know. I would extrapolate from this that Mr Trelawney wishes, for reasons as yet unknown, to maintain a hold over Mrs Hertford, and that he does so with total disregard for her feelings. I would speculate that…'
'…quite so, Miss Greene,' Holmes interrupted,
'Don't you want to hear what Ida speculates?' asked Clarence, 'I do…'
Holmes held up a finger for silence, and indicated the couch. Ida turned round to see that Mrs Hertford had started to stir.
'Mrs Hertford,' Ida began, going over to her side, 'are you alright?'
The older woman struggled to try and sit up a little, and Ida helped to prop her against a cushion,
'Who…exactly, are you?' she asked, her voice faint at first but getting an edge of anger, 'you're that maid and yet… Is this all some kind of trick?'
'I think I owe you an apology,' said Ida, 'but please understand that I was only trying to help…'
But Mrs Hertford didn't seem to be listening, she continued -
'…if this is a joke then it is in unbelievably poor taste, my husband shall hear of this and…'
'Mrs Hertford,' Holmes spoke at last, 'I apologise for…'
'…who the hell are you!' exclaimed Mrs Hertford in fright,
'Please, madam, you are quite safe…'
'….that's not what I asked!'
'My name is Holmes…'
'Holmes…' Mrs Hertford's mouth framed the word, and then recognition dawned in her eyes,
'Sherlock! From Christchurch!'
Holmes swallowed, looking uncomfortable,
'Yes. I knew your son Morris when we both at Oxford together…'
'…so…so… do you know… is Morris…?'
'Mrs Hertford, the last thing in the world I want is to cause you further pain, but I can assure you that your son died fifteen years ago…'
Mrs Hertford closed her eyes and breathed in deeply through her nose, clearly trying to stay as composed as possible. Holmes too, seemed to be trying to control his face as he finished, simply,
'…I was there.'
There was a moment of stillness, when Ida didn't quite know where to look.
'So,' said Mrs Hertford at last, 'that letter I received…'
'Was a forgery, madam.'
'…and that…man…who sent it t me…' Mrs Hertford's eyes grew wide suddenly, 'Oh, Emily! Emily's with him now, that…that wretch, that monster, that…'
'Mrs Hertford, the well being of your daughter is all of our priority,' said Holmes, 'in fact, that was what Miss Greene here,' he indicated Ida, 'was seeking to uphold…'
Mrs Hertford looked back at Ida in bewilderment, as if she had forgotten her presence,
'I'm a private detective,' said Ida, 'I'm sorry for any deceit, but…' she tailed off, as Mrs Hertford squeezed her eyes tight shut
'I don't care about the details,' she said, 'I've lost my son, again. And now, my daughter…' her voice caught in a sob
'Madam,' said Holmes gently, 'we really need you to tell us the whole story of your dealings with Daniel Trelawney. This could be absolutely imperative to your daughter's safety.'
'I…I…can't think…' she sniffed,
'Please,' said Holmes, with almost corrosive intensity, 'we might not have a lot of time…'
'…you mean…he might…what? What might he do to her?'
'Mrs Hertford, I need for you to think back…'
………………..
Ida listened as Mrs Hertford told, somewhat tearfully, her story. The letter, supposedly from her son, had arrived some months back, followed soon by another letter from Daniel Trelawney, requesting that she and her daughter Emily should come to a particular spot in St James' park, so that Morris could, again supposedly, see them from a distance. The need for all the secrecy (even Emily was not to be told) was never explained, but the merest hint that her son might not be dead was sufficient to make Mrs Hertford carry out whatever request was made. In any case, that day in the park, and at several other locations dictated in subsequent letters, Emily had met a man who later identified himself as none other than Daniel Trelawney. What sort of further courtship might have gone on without her knowledge, Mrs Hertford couldn't say, but in time Emily had fallen completely for this strange man, so many years her senior, and one day she had simply disappeared.
Mrs Hertford had nearly told her husband everything at this point, but then she received the coded letter from her daughter that asked her to place a message in the Times and arrange a meeting. This had taken place in Lyre's Café – as Ida had observed – and Emily had told her that she was now engaged to Daniel Trelawney…
…at this point, Mrs Hertford started sobbing again. Ida patted her arm awkwardly whilst Holmes stared fiercely at the fireplace for a good 30 seconds…
'We must confront him,' he said, suddenly snapping to attention, 'we must confront Daniel Trelawney with this deception and disabuse your daughter of any amicable feelings she may have towards him.'
'You mean…' said Mrs Hertford, 'that you can find him?'
'Miss Greene and I know where.'