Chapter 2 - Murder at Gable Manor
Sherlock Holmes awoke early the following morning. Having gone out before breakfast to send some telegrams and a note to Wiggins, the leader of the "Baker street" irregulars, he returned to Baker Street to find the doctor midway through his breakfast.
With his usual flare of teasing and eccentric descriptions, Sherlock told the story of the night before, beaming with amusement at the increasingly comical look on Watson's face. When he finished, Sherlock sat back in his armchair, his pipe in hand and an intoxicating cloud of smoke around his head while the doctor sat at the table, his half finished breakfast now cold, staring at him with the air of one who is bewildered as well as horrified.
"Well Watson," Sherlock said after a thick silence. "What do you make of it?"
"I hardly know what to make of it," the doctor replied, "I mean – well – you helped a mentally unstable woman escape from an asylum!"
Sherlock puffed at his pipe thoughtfully.
"No…" he said softly, "she was a great many things, Watson. But I am satisfied that she was not mentally unstable. Strange, and a little eccentric in her mannerisms but hardly anything to call her mad,"
"But the gentlemen in the carriage!"
"May be mistaken, or more likely part of an elaborate conspiracy."
Watson smiled softly.
"Holmes, I know your feeling depressed by your lack of employment, but that doesn't mean you can create them out of incidents that are otherwise straightforward. This woman was in an asylum, she somehow managed to escape to London, where you found her wandering in a graveyard in the dead of night. You see, there is no mystery to it."
"And her story, about being cruelly used and cruelly wronged?"
"Simple fantasy. No doubt she believes it to be true, but in fact; it's all in her head. It is a fairly common symptom in people like that."
"No, no, no, Watson," Sherlock replied softly, "I am able to observe when someone is lying and I have, on more than one occasion, observed the actions of people with unstable minds: this woman is neither. You did not see her or else I'm sure you would speak differently. She was lonely, and confused; but there was reasoning in her speech. She knew exactly what she wanted and what she was going to do that, to me, is proof of a healthy mind rather than an unbalanced one. And the fear, Watson: such terrible, heart wrenching fear; fear of this nameless baron whom I'm sure is the one who put her in the asylum: "I have been cruelly used and cruelly wronged." That is what she said. No friend Watson, these were not ravings. This woman was fleeing for her life."
Watson was still sceptical. "But her actions, Holmes! You said yourself her actions and speech were strange."
"My actions and speech are strange!" Holmes cried with a touch of impatience. "You say it yourself! Simply because someone behaves slightly beyond the norm doesn't mean they are dangerous and should be locked up!
I didn't say there was nothing wrong with the woman, I said she wasn't mad. Perhaps she has some mild form of illness that makes her act so; you're the doctor, you know of such things better than me. All I know is this woman is in trouble, and I intend to do everything in my power to help her!"
Sherlock jumped onto his feet with an energy that matched the conviction in his voice, and fixed Watson with a look that showed nothing would change his mind.
At that moment, the door swung open and a young ragamuffin ran in, taking his cap off and saluting to both gentlemen.
"Ah, Wiggins," said Sherlock, walking to the other side of the room and sitting at his desk, "you got my message."
"Right, gov," the youth replied breathlessly, "I got 'em all standin' by. I came as quickly as I could!"
"Well done," Sherlock replied, "now: I want you to look for a lady; tall, thin with brown hair and green eyes, and wearing a navy blue dress, a bonnet and carrying a small handbag. She will have been seen in Tottenham late last night, so I suggest you begin your search there. Find out where she is and if she's with anyone. Report as soon as you do. An extra guinea goes to the boy who finds her."
Sherlock said all this while writing a note on a scrap bit of paper.
"Right, gov!" Wiggins said, and he ran out.
Watson shut the door behind him and turned to look at Sherlock, who was still writing.
A small smile was playing on the doctor's face when Sherlock finished and turned round.
"Why do you smile doctor?" he asked, ringing a bell and striding to the closed door. "Can it be you are already beginning to appreciate my reasoning?"
"No, not really," Watson replied, "but I suppose this is better than seeing you crouched in a corner filling yourself with chemicals!"
Sherlock smiled at him. Then with another reflex of energy, he threw open the door with a cry: "Mrs Hudson!"
The poor elderly woman, who had obviously been eavesdropping stumbled in, looking highly indignant.
"You rang, Mr Holmes?"
"Would you go to the butcher shop and give this to Bill, please,"
"That young rascal with the funny eye?" Mrs Hudson said sceptically, taking the note from Sherlock.
"The other is invaluable," replied Sherlock, "as is his bicycle."
He made a gesture to the door and she walked out, still looking indignant.
Sherlock closed the door again, a mischievous look in his eyes that made Doctor Watson chuckle.
"What do you intend to do now?" he asked.
"Nothing," Sherlock replied, taking out his violin, "I can do nothing else until I receive replies from my telegrams and the 'irregulars' have discovered the lady's whereabouts. But I shall be very much surprised if we don't hear anything by early evening!"
It was eleven o'clock of the same evening, and Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his armchair beside the fire, smoking continuously.
There had been no news; nothing to give him a clue as to the whereabouts of the woman. His telegrams had both been replied to with negative results, and Wiggins had reported there was no sign of her in the Tottenham area.
Sherlock found this depressing, but Watson pointed out that he had hardly allowed any time at all to pass for the 'irregulars' to make a proper search, and added confidently that there would probably be news tomorrow.
Tomorrow came and went, as did the following day; and the day after. Slowly the days turned into weeks until one month had went by and nothing could be discovered. During this time Sherlock had went through a variety of moods; initially nervousness and impatience, resulting in him going out for a week and returning in frustration; then gradually subsiding into terrible depression, from which, not even cocaine could relieve him of.
Watson could do nothing but watch and show his support, for Sherlock would not allow him to do any more, even when it was becoming clear it was becoming a medical problem. He didn't eat, he didn't sleep or go outside; he simply sat in his armchair smoking, staring at a spot on the carpet, and rarely speaking when spoken to.
It was a particularly dark day in March; the clouds heavy and threatening of rain, when Watson ran into the living room, a beaming smile on his face and a business card in his hand.
"Holmes! Wonderful news!"
Sherlock's head jerked up, the first time in weeks. "Wiggins has found her?"
Watson's smile wavered slightly. "No."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and slouched back into his initial position.
"But I do have something to cheer you up," said the doctor brightly, "I was working in my practice when, at about midday, a young woman came in and asked if I could spare a few minutes conversation with her."
Sherlock made no inclination to show he'd heard, but the doctor continued nonetheless.
"I allowed the lady to come in, though I told her on no uncertain terms that I could speak for a few minutes. Well, in she came, a lovely young lady at that, and after introducing herself, she told me immediately that her reason for visiting was that she wished to see you."
Still, no response from Sherlock.
"I enquired why, if she wished to see you, was she at my practice," Watson continued, " and she said that she didn't know where you lived but by means of a friend, who is a patient of mine, she was able to find her way to the practice. Her name is Miss Judith Allan and the matter concerns her brother, Holmes; her brother has been murdered!"
At this point, Sherlock looked up at the doctor, who looked as though he had been told he was inheriting a fortune.
"You sound so delighted, Watson," Sherlock remarked dryly.
"My dear fellow, this is exactly what you need; a little problem to get your mind of this other business, for the circumstances are very mysterious."
"Watson, I know you mean well, but to actually come here and tell me a simple murder has occurred and dressing it up in mystery is hardly going to put me in good spirits."
"I'm not dressing it up in mystery. It really is-"
"Hardly worth my time," Sherlock interrupted, stumbling dejectedly into his bedroom.
"But I've told her to come to Baker Street," the doctor cried desperately, "I said you would be more than happy to assist and she said she would return at three o'clock."
"Then let that be a lesson to you not to make promises on my behalf," Sherlock replied, now lying sprawled on his bed.
Watson walked in and draped his arm over the bed, still holding the card in his hand.
"But Holmes – "
"Miss Judith Allan!" Sherlock said softly, staring up at the name of the card. "I wonder… Did she say where she was from?"
"Yes. Cumbernauld; Gable Manor."
Sherlock sat bolt upright, snatching the card from his friend and stared at it fiercely.
"What is it Holmes? What's wrong?"
"Cumbernauld… Gable Manor…" Sherlock whispered.
"You know the place?" Watson asked.
"No. But I know the names; I heard them recently."
"From whom?"
"The lady from the graveyard!"
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