Pecunia non olet – Part 5

Sherlock:

It was almost tea time when I reached Kings Cross and carried on towards Croydon, taking a train from St. Pancras. The address Peters had given me turned out to be a small old-fashioned house, overgrown with ivy. On first glance, it looked fairly cosy but on the second it revealed a hint of neglect. The front porch could do with a new coat of paint and the same applied to the windows, the lawn was overgrown and shaggy, the flowerbeds, that once had lined the paths were full of dried weeds and the path itself had not been swept in a while. Both my wife as well as my landlady would be ashamed to greet anybody with this mess and neither of the two was overly scrupulous.

A sad looking apple tree, apples unpicked littering the ground, overshadowed the front and only one window was illuminated, it being the only indication that the abode was inhabited at all. I knocked, as the bell wire was broken, and a moment later the door swung open to reveal a woman in her early sixties, her face haggard and filled with bitterness.

"Mrs Dawson?" I enquired politely, cautious that she should not close the door in my face.

"Who wants to know?" was her hostile reply.

"My name, Mrs Dawson is Sherlock Holmes, I would like to ask you a few questions."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously and eventually, she all but spat: "I am not interested. I have never heard of you, so why should I want to answer any of your darn questions? What is this about anyway?"

Ah, so she was interested after all! Good. Pulling a Guinea from my waistcoat pocket and playing with it, I raised an eyebrow as if in contemplation. It was always the same sad method, I admit, but it, unfortunately, worked so incredibly well when trying to get at information, that it would be rather stupid not to make use of it. Where the desperation was big enough, money would always be traded for knowledge.

"I was engaged by a relation of yours – well, a relation by marriage, to be precise."

"And who would that be?" she asked, her eyes never leaving the small gold disc.

"A Mr Everett Trenton."

"Never heard of him."

"He is a cousin of the late Mr Gilad Trenton, your brother in law."

She laughed bitterly.

"And what would this Everett Trenton want from me?"

"You of course know, how your brother in law died, don't you?"

A nod was all the answer Mrs Dawson graced me with.

"Since then the famous Trenton jewels are missing. Now, the burglar insisted, he had not found them either, and there seems to be no trace in or around the house, where they could be hidden. So my question is..."

With some incredulous fury, she interrupted me: "Sir, if you are implying, we have stolen them or anything the like, you are completely wrong!"

"I am not assuming any such thing," I soothed, though a suspicion had been roused and I made a mental note. "I just wanted to know, when was the last time you have seen the gems?"

Now Mrs Dawson looked baffled.

"When I have seen them last? When Emily was still alive. The Christmas before she died she wore them. We were not on good terms, but on Christmas, we would visit one another, if only it was for tea and to resume our quarrels. That particular Christmas was her turn and I went and she had all her 'regalia' on, needing to show off. Always fancied herself to be my superior, she did."

The jealousy was palpable. I had seen photographs of the late Emily Trenton and she had been a beauty. Her sister, on the other hand, did not resemble her very much, though at one point she must have been fairly pretty as well, as her lips were still full and her eyes were large and of an unusual shade of blue. Her features though were lined, her complexion pasty and her chin fleeting, indicating a weak personality.

"I have heard from Mr Peters of Barnet that you made a claim to the inheritance?" I carried on.

"And if we have? What business of yours would that be?" Christine Dawson went off again.

"None so far, but were you very surprised, when the inheritance went to this cousin?"

"They never said anything about where it went, just that we are not entitled to have any share. Emily's jewels went to her husband after she has died and his stuff was supposed to go to the nearest of his blood relatives and that was that."

At least this tied in perfectly with what Peters had told me. Mrs Dawson did not appear to be very likeable, but she seemed to be fairly honest. - As far as honesty goes.

"Has your sister ever spoken of any cousin of her husbands?"

"One. A lady living somewhere up in Scotland. They wrote to one another, seemed a decent lass that one."

"A Mrs Broderick?" I enquired, reading the name from my notebook that I had pulled out to scribble down my impressions.

"I believe that was the name. Barbara is the first name if I am not much mistaken. - I think there was another cousin, but he emigrated to South Africa. That was years back though, I was not even married then and Emmy and I were still on good terms."

I glanced up at her, just in time to see a small smile grace her lips as she remembered these happier times. It made all the difference to her features and a glimpse of the girl she once must have been showed through the rough and worn surface.

"Could it have been South America?"

"Yes, it could be. As said, it was years ago."

"How many?" I dug deeper, awaiting the answer with bated breath.

"A good twenty, I would say. I got married in '74, so it must have been prior to that."

"Mrs Dawson, one more thing, this cousin of Gilad Trenton, did he have a wife and children?"

"No, he had not. They say he left England for a reason if you know what I mean."

"Was he a criminal?"

"So to speak. He preferred the company of men. The close company of men. The one only a man and a woman are supposed to share."

I nodded to indicate I understood what she had meant. If this was true, Everett Trenton had every reason to depart and start over in another country. The implication of homosexuality alone was enough in some circles to ruin a man's life forever.

Letting the information sink in for a moment or two I eventually thanked her, handed her the Guinea and made to leave, when from the direction of the station a drunk man swayed towards us, his walking stick held in a threatening manner and his face contorted in anger. The woman beside me flinched and automatically stepped behind me in an attempt to shelter herself from the rage of her drunken husband.

William Dawson sported the usual signs of alcohol abuse, his face red and the skin looking almost pockmarked, his cornea was yellowed and his gaze unfocused.

"What do you want?" he shouted, even before he had entered through the garden gate. "I told you we will not sell!"

"William, he is not here about..." his wife tried to appease him but to no avail. Dawson hobbled towards us undeterred and still swinging his stick wildly above his head.

"I don't care what he is or not. We will not sell the buffet. It was my great-grandmothers and she was the daughter of an earl, she was." he slurred, standing now in front of me, his eyes trying to focus on my face. The effort though seemed too much and instead of steadying himself he fell over and onto the rugged patch of grass. As much as I was tempted to leave him where he was, I could not bring it over me to leave his wife to deal with him all alone and so, pulling him up, I slumped him over my shoulder and indicated to the woman to show me the way.

I was fairly surprised to find, that the inside of the house was well kept. Sure, the furniture was old and had seen better days, but everything was neat and clean. The heap of clothes and the sewing machine in the corner told me, that it must be mainly Mrs Dawson's task to provide for the family, working as a seamstress. And judging by the amount of clothes she had already done and the ones that still needed working on, she also seemed industrious. Most wives would have given up in despair, but apparently not Christine Dawson.

Remembering that the fall out between the two sisters had been due to the unsuitability of the one's husband, the very William Dawson who lay snoring on the faded settee before me, spittle drooling from his agape mouth, I could not help thinking that Emily Trenton had had a point there.

Stepping out into the cold November evening, I wondered whether I should carry on towards Lisson Grove or rather go home. The decision was taken from me though. I was about halfway to the station when it began to rain heavily and I was drenched to my skin. Shivering, I made my way to Baker Street as it was closest, needing a moment to gather my thoughts and to warm up. I was certain I had gotten fairly close to the solution, but there was still a missing piece - the one factor, that connected all the dots and would reveal the full picture.

Changing into dry clothing I reached for my pipe and violin and sat down in front of the fireplace that thankfully was lit and emanated comfortable warmth, the more appreciated by a man, who had just escaped the frosty grasp of an icy autumn downpour.

I had sat like this for more than an hour, without realising it had gotten this late and with a start, I made to leave. 'The Wheat-sheaf' could wait till tomorrow. Suddenly I was very tired and I longed for a smile and a kiss from my wife and to retire to bed. It had been surprisingly quick, that I had become accustomed to being a husband. And yet, it was easy enough being the husband of Harriet. She was the companion I had never dared to dream of and that at the same time I had often wished for. Accepting, that in matters of the heart I apparently was a hopeless romantic I hailed a cab to get home. A home that was, wherever my wife was.

xxx

Harriet:

I had spent my day quite leisurely, once in a while chatting to Martha or Tom, but mostly sitting curled up on the sofa in my study, reading. By midday, I was beginning to feel restless and as there was still the need to fill up my wardrobe again, I was busy cutting out the pieces for a new dress when a telegram arrived from Sherlock. Knowing that when on a case he would only write to me if it was important, I ripped it open, slightly worried, but also intrigued by what it might contain. What it did contain was unexpected and brought a smile to my face and tears to my eyes. There, on the small, official-looking slip of paper the words: I love you, were imprinted.

Suddenly I missed my husband very much, despite him being only gone for the day and I wondered what I could do for him in return. He was so lovely and attentive, I had never dared dream of a husband like him and in the most unlikely situation, we had found one another. Was there something I could do for him? Even if it was just something as simple as cooking his favourite meal?

With a pang of guilt I realised I did not know, what dish that was, before reminding myself that, with only knowing each other for close to four weeks, a time which, with most people, would not even be enough to consider a proper courtship, this was not quite surprising. And then I remembered, that Mrs Hudson for sure, was bound to know.

Writing a quick note to her, asking for the required information and at the same time enquiring, if she thought it a good idea to prepare something for Mary Watson's return in four days I sent Tom over to Baker Street.