The worst of days – Part 7

Sherlock:

A shy and brainless creature, my wife certainly was not – and still, had I first seen admiration on the three prisoners faces, as soon as she contributed to the conversation, the men became wary, and were fortunately all too glad, to return their attentions to me and my questions. It appeared, that a pretty face seemed incompatible with a sharp brain in their opinion. - In mine it was a close to perfect combination – and in Harriet, it was all I had ever wanted.

The fourth and last of the prisoners was Randolph Lopscombe. As he was brought into the visitor's room, he looked tired and worn and it was apparent, that his health was declining. His skin had a sickly yellowish pallor, his lips were a brown hue, looking like stained old parchment and when he looked up, his eyes glanced unfocused and the sclera of them had the same unhealthy yellow shade his skin sported. Slumping down on a chair, he did not greet us, but bend forward, his head resting in his hands, as he had placed his elbows on his knees, cold sweat glistening on his forehead and he was obviously in pain.

"Hepatitis." my wife said matter of factly, and then whispering into my ear: "By the looks of it, he has not many days left on this earth."

"Then it was good, we came here today," I muttered back.

"Mr Lopscombe, we are here to ask you a couple of questions." I addressed him, after a few minutes of silence, only interrupted by the heavy breathing of the sick man.

"Then go ahead and ask, and then, have the decency and let me die in peace."

I decided to go for the direct approach: "Your brother, was he involved in the assassination attempt?"

"That, sir, I cannot possibly answer."

"You just have. You could not have been more clear, had you answered with a yes."

Lopscombe looked up in alarm.

"You arrived at Hyde Park in his carriage. - A four-wheeler with four chestnut horses?"

"How on earth do you know that?"

"I did not. You just confirmed it though."

"The devil I did!" the prisoner yelled, springing up from his chair on unsteady legs, making him sway dangerously. In a moment, Harriet was by his side, steadying him and pressing him back down onto his seat, keeping her hand on his shoulder.

"Does it have a coat of arms?"

"Don't you know?" Lopscombe sneered, which with his unnatural tint looked quite ghoulish.

Ignoring his counter question, I carried on to the next issue: "Where is your brother now?"

"How would I know? He is his own master and has his own mistress and for all I care, he could be six feet under."

"So no love lost between the two of you, then?"

"I did not say that." he sighed, his eyes fixing on the hand lying on his shoulder as if he only now became aware of Harriet. He looked up and into her face and his features softened.

"How come you are not scared of me, miss?"

"Mrs. - Mrs Sherlock Holmes. And why would I be scared of you? I have seen these symptoms before in my line of work and I can see, you are a dying." she answered, looking neither disgusted nor sorry.

"Open to a degree that is painful." he retorted, though a gentle smile spread across his features.

"Would it help to sugar coat the inevitable truth?"

"No."

"And would it not help, if you came clean about your crime at last?" she went on, almost innocently.

Lopscombe chuckled in amusement. And a sad and desolate amusement it was: " I have come clean three days ago when I had a parson perform the last rites. As regards to me, you may ask anything you want, but whatever my brother has done to me, or to others, I will refuse to answer. I will not drag him into anything, whether he has a share in it, or not."

"That I understand, sir. I would protect my brother as well, with everything that is in me. - Is he your older brother?"

"My younger by half an hour."

Harriet and I looked at each other in astonishment.

"What I do not understand though is, why did you use his carriage, when you wanted to keep him out of trouble?"

"Because it was to be sold the week after and it would not have been connected to him easily anyway. He had been ordered to sell it by his fiancée's aunt, who, after she became infirm, had no use for the stately carriage anymore. She gifted it to her niece and since she had no use for such a large and old-fashioned thing either, it was agreed that Joseph was to sell it and invest the revenue on behalf of his future wife."

"But it had a coat of arms?" my wives voice now sounded almost disinterested and it was less pronounced like a question, but rather like a sideline remark.

"Yes, it had. Aunty Bethany comes from a Cornish line – the Brandons. Perhaps you have heard of General Brandon, who tried to force a separation from Devon in 1726?"

"I think I might have. Was that not the incident, where the Cornish tried to pull down the bridge across the River Plym that runs between Devonshire and Cornwall?"

"No, that is another incident, all together. The general marched on Exeter with a bunch of one hundred and fifty farmers daughters, whom he had promised among other things, to wed them."

"All hundred and fifty? He must have been insane!" I mumbled, though, from the grins on Harriet's and Lopscombe's faces, I was certain they had heard me.

"Yes, to all of them. Needless to say, that once the word spread among the young ladies, there was no need for an army to dispel the group of marauders, as they took it into their own hands."

"So they did not make it to Exeter?"

"No, they did not even make it to Tavistock."

"So, not much of a heroic deed after all."

"No. He is admittedly the least honourable man of the family, but unfortunately also the most famous. - At least in the west country."

"Are you done with your story time, yet?" I interrupted the very illuminating conversation.

"Jealous of a dying man?" Lopscombe quipped, looking amused.

"By no means. But it is past midday and I am getting hungry." I replied, truthfully, though that had not been the reason, why I wanted this conversation to end. He had given us very useful information and I was eager to return to London and check up on it. It seemed almost to tie in too well with the rest of the hypothesis I had formed.

The ill man grinned jovially at us and it occurred to me, that once he must have been an excellent fellow, despite his political views.

"Then take this wonderful wife of yours and enjoy your meal. - But I swear you were jealous there for a bit."

"I would be a bad husband if I liked other men flirting with my wife," I remarked, half in jest.

When we left, Lopscombe was still sitting in his chair, and once more he had his head cradled in his propped up hands. He looked tired and worn.

"How long would you estimate, he has to live?" I asked as we stepped into the drizzle outside.

"Not many weeks. Perhaps a month, or a little more."

xxx

We took lunch at a small inn across the street from Amersham station, as we had missed our train by mere minutes, having struggled to get a cab to bring us there. The sandwiches they served, were decent, as was the tea - Harriet and I faced one another, having taken a table in a small recess that was overlooking the humble station.

"I take it, you have gotten some of your questions answered." my wife remarked when the waiter had left us in peace at long last.

"Yes. Almost all of them." I answered. "Now I just need to find the other Lopscombe twin."

"And how are you going to do that?"

"I'll have my methods. - And my informants in all classes of society. It might get tricky, but I am confident that it is not impossible."

"Well, then I am glad, you have basically solved this case."

I smiled at her faith in me, admitting though, that at the moment it was nothing but a theory and that to actually solve the case, I would need to have definitive proof, which I currently did not.

"Why do you think, the police never heard of Joseph Lopscombe?" she carried on.

"I am not sure they have never heard of him, but we asked the one question, the police has never even thought about. "

"How they arrived at Hyde Park?"

"Exactly! I was interested in finding a carriage, so I did enquire after one. That is what I meant when I said that sometimes just a change of perspective is needed."

She pondered on that for a few minutes, silently munching on her sandwich.

"Do you think, they have been double-crossed?" she eventually asked.

"What do you think?"

"It appears likely. Especially after Beaton's statement, that he was not caught with the bomb in his hand, but in his pocket. How else would the police have known? They do not generally search the crowd."

"Yes, how?" I mused.

"But if they suspect Joseph Lopscombe to be the traitor, why do they not tell the police, but let him get off?"

Again a smile spread across my face. Harriet was bright, but she still would need to be more attentive to detail. - Or perhaps it was just that she was yet lacking in knowledge in this unfamiliar field.

"First of all, it would have been unnecessary to inform the police, as in all likeliness, they already know that. Most times in exchange for such information, the informant is granted freedom. And secondly, because if they point out Lopscombe, he will have the power of telling on the rest. And on top of that, they may perhaps not be sure themselves, if he is the traitor or not. Remember, at least one other man must have gotten away."

Harriet contemplated my words, while I called for the waiter to settle our bill, as it was time to leave. It was only on the train, that she spoke again: "Of course! The advertisement in The Times! J. L. could be Joseph Lopscombe. But why would he hide, when he was granted freedom by the police?"

"That my dear is the prize question. Along with where to find him. - One possibility is, of course, that one of the group did actually find out and has pledged to avenge the others. It might explain, why J. L. only advertised several days after the event."

"It was two weeks later." my wife added, deep in thought herself.

"And we know of at least one man that got away officially."

"Thomas Jennings."

I looked up in astonishment, as this was so very different from working with Watson. Though not slow himself, he rarely managed to connect the dots quite in as efficient a manner as Harriet did instinctively.

"Are you sure, you are doing this for the first time, my love?" I quipped, wanting to kiss her, as a blush spread across her face at the unexpected compliment and I wondered how often she had been reprimanded for being an intelligent woman.

"The second time, Sherlock, the second time." she laughed.

"But yes, Thomas Jennings I meant. And he is doing anything but lying low. So it is not far-fetched to assume, he is not the one that the message was intended for."

xxx

We arrived home in the late afternoon, only shortly before Watson returned from his own outing. Harriet and I had just sat down on the sofa, snuggling up to one another, enjoying the warmth of the fireplace and refreshing ourselves with a steaming cup of tea, when he entered the sitting room, looking tired, but happier than I had seen him in a while.

"Holmes! Good evening. - Mrs Holmes." he greeted and then bursting out with seeming relief: "Mary will return in a fortnight. Whatever did you say to her, Holmes, that she is so happy to return to my side, when before she was so reluctant?"

"That, dear fellow, is my secret."

"We spoke a lot. - About Henry and the accident and her paralysis. Can you believe it, but she thought I would not mourn our baby?"

"I can. She told me so. But that is indeed is good news, would you care for some more?" I asked, wincing, as Harriet pinched my side painfully and looking at me, she shook her head almost imperceptibly, mouthing: "Don't!"

But it was too late then. I had made the blunder and now I could not retreat, as the doctor asked eagerly: "You have found something?"

"We might have," I answered in an elusive manner.

"Then tell me!"

Inwardly I sighed, summarising what we had heard and learned that day. Watson sat in his armchair across from us, sponging up every word I said, while Harriet had gotten up and had walked over to the window, looking out into the gloom of an early November evening.

My friend looked sceptical at first, but soon his scepticism was replaced by anger and once more by despair.

"So my son had to die because a group of radicals tried to kill the Prime Minister because they could not stand the course history has taken two hundred years ago? That is so pathetic! But I have to say, that as much as I value our Prime Minister, I would have preferred it if he had been killed."

"That, Watson, is more than understandable. I doubt any parent would feel otherwise."

From the recesses of the dimly lit room Harriet quietly said: "And yet, I would have preferred, if there had been no deaths at all."

"That would indeed have been most ideal," I answered, my eyes fixed on my friend. And at long last, I saw a tear run down his cheek, while another welled up in his eye. He tried to blink it away, but it would flow freely at long last. The pain, the anger, the loneliness and now the new found hope were at this point, too much to be borne, and what had been suppressed for almost one and a half years, now burst to the surface. Too mentally exhausted, my friend now cried unabashed like a little child, his shoulders slumped, hands covering his face, shaken by grief so justly felt.

I was myself so perplexed by his reaction, that I did not realise that Harriet had approached me, and only when she put her hand on my arm softly and whispered into my ear that we should retreat for the moment, did I move.

Leaving the mourning man behind for the moment, we closed the bedroom door behind us.

"That, Sherlock, was almost unfeeling!" Harriet told me off, hands on her hips and her pretty face angry, eyes sparkling.

"But he wanted to know..." I tried to defend myself, knowing she had a point.

"You managed to catch him at a most unguarded moment. Of course, he wanted to know. And he is entitled to know. But the time was most unwisely chosen."

"I know. I am sorry." At that moment I felt like a little boy, wanting nothing more than his mother's forgiveness. I received it promptly when she took my face into her hands and kissed me gently.

"You are forgiven, Sherlock."

"Harriet?" I inquired carefully, "Would you mind if I visit my club?"

"You want to start your search for Lopscombe even tonight?"

"Have I become this easy to read?"

"No, but why else would you want to go? - Apart from perhaps wanting to get away from that awful wife of yours?"

"I only have one wife and if I could, I would take her to the club with me, to make all the other men jealous of my good fortune."

"Who knew you were such a charmer?" she teased. "And go by all means, if you want to. - But Sherlock, be careful, please!"