Chapter 7 – Trust Earned
Anne Summerley spent the morning down at the village, where she bought some new clothes, a bonnet and some books from the old bookshop. She had planned to stop and have some lunch at the local inn on the way back, but everywhere she went, there were always enquiries into the situation at Gable Manor, and she became wearied with telling the story over and over again. At the inn it would be even worse, and she feared what would happen if she went in and her temper got the better of her. She knew they all meant well, but at the same time – the constant gossiping was giving her a headache.
By the time she reached the manor again it was early afternoon and the first person she met was Dr Watson, who was strolling about the gardens.
"Enjoy your shopping Miss Summerley?" he asked as she walked up to him.
"Hardly," she retorted, "they speak of nothing but the murder at the village. Honestly – I could barely take a breath or move a foot before someone would come up and ask me what was going on."
Watson chuckled. " Well, this is a quiet village. A murder is bound to cause a commotion."
Miss Summerley looked round the gardens. "So, where is Mr Holmes?"
"He's in his room," the doctor replied, "he didn't get much sleep last night so he's very tired."
"I see..."
Dr Watson looked at her nervously. "He, erm... He left me some instructions for you."
Miss Summerley jerked her head up. "Instructions?"
"Yes," Watson continued tentatively, " he said the patio doors in the breakfast room are not to be locked under any circumstances."
"They're to be left unlocked?"
"Yes."
"All day?"
"And all night."
"All night!"
Watson smiled in embarrassment. "Yes."
"Why on earth would he want me to do that?" she asked incredulously.
"Please, Miss Summerley," the doctor implored, "you must do as he says."
Miss Summerley gave him a knowing smile. "Mr Holmes has sworn you to secrecy, doctor. Whatever he is planning, I am not to know; is that correct?"
"For your own safety, Miss Summerley," Watson explained, "Mr Holmes's methods are elaborate and theatrical but they are effective, believe me."
Miss Summerley looked away thoughtfully.
"You say there will be danger, doctor?"
"Indeed."
"What about Miss Allan?"
"You have my assurance she is safe."
Miss Summerley sighed. "It seems I have no choice but to do as you say. Did Mr Holmes say anything else?"
"Only that you should not stray from your daily routine save in one instance."
"Which is?"
"That you leave for your room at nine o'clock on the pretenses of a headache, and that you should stay in your room until morning."
Nine o'clock – before the servants are off duty. Miss Summerley made a mental note of this.
"Very well doctor," she said, "I will do exactly as you have instructed."
"Thank you, Miss Summerley," said Dr Watson, evidently greatly relieved. "Well, I best see how Miss Allan is faring."
"Shall I see you at dinner?" Miss Summerley asked.
"Of course. Good day Miss Summerley."
"Good day, Doctor."
Doctor Watson walked away into the manor, but Miss Summerley remained where she was. She looked up at the building to the window of the room where Mr Sherlock Holmes was residing. It was partially open, and she could see small clouds of smoke appear from inside. The man was a heavy smoker.
She smiled. "Sleeping my foot!" she said, " don't think I don't know what you're up to great detective. It is the first rule of engagement to never underestimate your opponent!"
The day went by quietly, with Doctor Watson in Miss Allan's room, Holmes in his room and Miss Summerley in the library. In the evening Miss Summerley and Dr Watson ate in the dining room, both sombre and tense. Afterwards, Miss Summerley left for the drawing room and Watson made his way back up to Miss Allan's room, sitting quietly by the window reading a book.
With the night came an eerie heaviness that reminded the doctor of the sinister case of the speckled band; when he and Holmes had waited in darkness for over three hours for the menacing hissing and venomous pounce of the swamp adder that had been placed in the room.
Watson swallowed hard and stared out the window, where he was just able to notice the shadowy form of a man scuttling from bush to bush, closer to the manor: It was almost time.
At exactly nine o'clock, he heard the soft tread of Miss Summerley passing the room to go to her own quarters further down the corridor. As soon as he heard the door close, Watson closed his book and quietly left Miss Allan's room. The lamps were still on in the corridor and downstairs, showing that the servants were still working.
Stretching and yawning, the doctor went down the stairs into the drawing room, where the young butler Smith was putting out the lights. He was unusually large for his age, and in his uniform he looked comical standing on a stool and adjusting a lamp.
"So sorry, sir," he said in a booming voice as the doctor entered, " Miss Summerley is feeling under the weather and left for her room – I didn't think you would be coming back down."
"That's alright, Smith," Watson replied with a smile, " I just thought I would do some light reading before turning in. If you could leave that light on at that table there, that'll be grand."
"Yes sir."
Watson watched as he turned out all the other lights, leaving the one on the table as desired. He bowed and was about to leave when Watson called him back.
"One moment, Smith,"
The butler turned round. "Yes, sir?"
"I realise that you're finished for the night, but I wonder if you could do me one more thing before you leave."
"Of course, sir," Smith replied, his posture sagging in disappointment.
"Would you be good enough to take a glass of water up to your mistress's room? In case she gets dehydrated."
Smith smiled and bowed politely. "Right away sir."
"Thank you, Smith."
The butler left, and Watson was alone in the room. Nervously, he picked up the day's newspaper and sat in the large armchair beside the light.
The clock chimed ten o'clock, and it's sound echoed throughout the building, breaking it's eerie silence. Giving up on reading, Watson threw the paper away and began pacing the room. He hated waiting alone; especially when he wasn't sure what the outcome would be. Holmes had told him to go into the drawing room as back up, but Watson knew perfectly well it was for protection Holmes had told him to go there. If he had wanted backup, he would've told Watson to stay upstairs; instead, he insisted that Watson remain in the drawing room until the alarm was raised.
"But what is the alarm?" Watson had asked when Holmes had explained. But Holmes simply smiled and waved a knowing finger.
"You'll know when you hear it, Watson."
Watson cursed under his breath: he hated when Holmes spoke cryptic. Nonetheless, he had done as he had been told, and now all he had to do was wait.
He didn't have to wait very long. Ten minutes later there came the sudden roar of a gun going off upstairs, it's echo throughout the manor making it sound like an earthquake.
After recovering from his initial fright, Watson sprang out of the drawing room into the hall. At that moment, there was another sound – the sound of a door slamming open, and the heavy thud of footsteps in the breakfast room.
With his revolver ready, Watson ran to the room and opened the door on time for the intruder to collide with him. Knocked back, and more than a little confused, it took a moment for Watson to realise the intruder was speaking to him.
"Doctor Watson? Doctor Watson, are you alright?"
Watson peered into the small lantern that was now being thrown into his face and recognised the busy moustache and pleasant face of Constable Jefferson.
"Yes, yes – Quite alright, Jefferson," Watson replied recovering himself.
There was loud crash of china from the floor above, and the sounds of fighting. Jefferson looked up at the ceiling, and then back at Watson, who was now running to the stairs. "This way, constable!"
They reached the top landing and ran down the corridor to Miss Allan's room, where they met an extraordinary sight.
The huge form of Smith the butler, trying to fit his large frame through the door, with Sherlock Holmes on top of him, hanging on for dear life.
"Bring him down, Watson!" he cried, as the big brute smashed him against a wall in an attempt to get him off. "Bring him, down!"
Watson immediately leapt at Smith's left leg, while the constable went for the other, attempting to make him fall. But even with them, Smith managed to keep his balance, and roaring like an animal, he continued to make his way through the corridor: with Holmes on his back, and dragging Watson and the constable on the floor with his feet.
They were almost at the stairs, when suddenly Smith stopped with a grunt. Holmes peered over Smith's shoulder to see Miss Anne Summerley standing before them. She was in her white nightgown with a light shawl draped over her shoulders, her hair fell down to her waist in curls and shone under the moonlight.
She didn't flinch as they approached, but stood her ground, her arms by her side and an expression of grim determination on her face.
"Raise your hands, Smith," she said in a low voice, "and get down on your knees."
Smith looked at her, as though pondering what to do.
"Miss Summerley, get out of here!" Holmes cried. But Miss Summerley remained where she was, her eyes fixed upon Smith, who was now crouching slightly. He was preparing to push her out of the way.
He took a step towards her, and she raised her hand, pointing a small pistol to his head. Again Smith paused; he hadn't expected this.
All this time Watson and Jefferson pushed and pulled upon Smith's legs, trying to unbalance him, but to no avail. The scene would have been comical, had it not been under serious circumstances.
"I'm warning you, Smith," Miss Summerley said, her voice now barely more than a whisper, "I don't give second chances. Do as I say, or I will shoot you!"
Holmes heard Smith swallow hard, and detected a tremble. Could this colossal man actually be afraid of a woman? Holmes peered over at Miss Summerley again: the way her jaw was set, her posture rigid, her eyes ablaze. Yes, she would shoot, and Smith knew it.
"If I surrender, I'll be hanged," Smith grunted, but Miss Summerley was unyielding. "You can die now or die at a later date. At least with the latter you have the chance to appeal."
Smith seemed to be considering this. Then finally, he went down on his knees, allowing Holmes back onto the ground and Watson and the constable to stand.
Holmes clapped his hands. "Bravo, everyone," he said as Jefferson put handcuffs on Smith, "true to form as always, Jefferson. You may wish to hold him downstairs until backup arrives – Help him, will you Watson?"
The three men walked along the corridor; Constable Jefferson leading the way, Smith in the middle, and Watson behind, pointing his revolver into Smith's back.
Walking swiftly into Miss Allan's room, Holmes picked up the gun which had fallen in the scuffle: it belonged to Smith. He turned to leave and found Miss Summerley standing in the doorway, still holding the gun loosely at her side. She looked at his face anxiously.
"You're hurt, Mr Holmes," she said gently.
Holmes blinked, and felt his face. He hadn't noticed until now, the unusual swelling around his eye – his cheek was also sticky with blood. He smiled and waved it away dismissively. "Only scratches due to my own clumsiness," he answered bluntly.
She nodded and looked about the disarrayed room.
"I believe you will find Miss Allan in my room," Holmes said, anticipating her actions. When she looked at him again he added: "She is quite well – But no doubt she will be anxious to know what the commotion was about."
Miss Summerley nodded again. She looked as if she were going to say something, but instead, she walked out the room, her eyes wide like she were dazed.
Holmes shook his head and then crouched on the floor; where there was broken glass and a liquid spilt on the rug. He was in the midst of analysing this when:
"Mr Holmes?"
Holmes looked up. Miss Summerley stood at the door once more; her eyes now shining with unshed tears and her lip trembling with emotion.
Holmes waited. "Yes, madam?"
"Thank you."