Truth or dare – Part 3

Harriet:

Wrapping the babe tightly into a borrowed blanket we made our way back to Baker Street, at last, a little more than two hours after we had sat out on our stroll. But it was not to stay, but to inform Mrs Hudson about the change of situation and to pick up Tom to go down to Chiswick where I had everything we would need to care for a newborn. It did cause a bit of a stir and our landlady managed to persuade us, to at least take a sip of tea and wrap up the child a bit better and perhaps feed her with some milk.

When we left 221 B Baker Street it was with a heavily laden basket of food which only needed some warming up and a pitcher of fresh milk. Well, milk as fresh as is to be had in London anyway. As the journey to my house took us decidedly longer than anticipated, the acceptance of the landladies eager hospitality proved to be a wise decision.

"I wonder why Mrs. Hudson had a babies gown at hand." I mused, looking at the sleeping child in my arms. It was so tiny yet perfect in its own right and as usual, my instincts had taken over as soon as I was entrusted with its care.

"Me, too. I presume it is a hint for us, my dear."

"Oh, really? How very subtle. But I think it has more to do with charity work actually." I laughed, speaking from experience, while Tom, who at the time of our explaining had packed his things, was now all curiosity and tried desperately to sit still and keep quiet.

"Come on boy, spill it." At last, my husband smirked.

"Is that your baby?" our little page asked, staring at the little bundle in awe and wonder.

"No. She is the daughter of a young woman who has died this afternoon and of whom we do not yet know who she is."

"That is sad." was Tom's heartfelt reply and Sherlock affectionately ruffled his hair.

"Yes, it is."

"Do you think you can find out who she was?" our page enquired further.

"There is a good chance we might. But for now, it is time to eat and then go to bed."

"If you don't find out, will you keep the baby?"

"We shall see, Tommy."

Tired and worn we had, at last, made it home, the romance of the afternoon a distant shadow and all our plans for the evening overthrown. While Tom immediately sat out to fulfil his duties, namely light the fires, Sherlock and I carried the cot, which only a few weeks ago we had carried up into the attic, back down and into our bedroom, waking Martha in the process. My maid, being a country girl, was an early riser but usually went to bed just as early if she could. She had obviously cleaned the house thoroughly and even attempted to clear the footpath to our front door, covering the slippery surface with some ash. It was nice to see that I could rely on her, even when she did not expect us.

Contrary to the hubbub the little girl had created with Mrs Hudson and Jane, Martha, did not batter an eyelid but instead went down and into the laundry to fetch a stack of nappies and a change of clothes for the little one. When we had nothing better to do, which lately was but rarely, the two of us would produce endless amounts of nappies, socks, dresses, caps and so forth to be taken to St. Anne's every once in a while. Now, this strategy paid off as we had everything at hand we needed for our little visitor, including the bottle I had fed Louise with.

Warming up our dinner upon my return to the back sitting-room I was met with a sight that melted my heart. There in my rocking chair sat my husband, baby on his shoulder, his eyes drooping as the long day he had caught up with him. Just when I started to swoon over the pair of them, the little miss decided it was time for her delayed burp. A small cascade of milk erupting from her pouty little mouth, soiling Sherlock's waistcoat and shirt, breaking the magic and making me laugh instead. Opening his eyes again my husband looked down at the mess, patted her back and with a wry smile remarked dryly: "Well done, my lass!" before taking the napkin I offered and wiping himself as clean as was possible under these circumstances.

xxx

We had barely finished our breakfast the next morning when Hopkins arrived on our doorstep.

"I am sorry to disturb you this early, but I have news on the body from last evening. When I returned to the Yard I, of course, enquired if there were any missing persons recorded, and there was one that fit perfectly."

Both Sherlock and I looked at him expectantly.

"The young lady is or rather was, a Miss Davina Adams, of Kingston. Her father identified her already, though I have to admit I was not quite sure how I was to tell him he now is a grandfather..."

I nodded sympathetically while he took the offered cup of coffee and bend over the laundry basket with the sleeping baby in it.

"She looks healthy considering the circumstances of her birth." the young inspector remarked.

"Yes, she is very healthy." I agreed, suppressing a yawn.

The little girl had indeed shown a healthy appetite, having woken me up four times during the night, while my husband, bless him, slept through all of it. How men managed to sleep through a babies crying was beyond me, while Sherlock had, when I had complained about it earlier this morning, answered nonchalantly that it must have something to do with motherly instincts. I suppressed the wish to throttle him and grudgingly I had to admit, that with that he might even be right. Still, this did nothing to substitute my lack of sleep and the thus resulting grumpiness of mine. Our conversation over breakfast had been rather one-sided as all I managed were monosyllables as I struggled to wake up with the help of a cup of strong coffee. I normally was all right with lack of sleep if the little sleep I had was not interrupted several times. When I took on Louise, the first week had been just as trying, before I, at last, had settled into a routine. Hopefully, this time around it would be the same if not quicker– if the little darling had to stay for any length of time, that was. And perhaps it would discourage my husband to start a family right away, giving us a few more months of blissful togetherness. Though looking at him, I had every reason to doubt it.

"As said," Hopkins continued, sitting down, "the dead woman is a Miss Davina Adams. She was indeed supposed to be at a fitting together with her aunt. It was this aunt who reported her missing, by the way. While Miss Adams was being fitted, she, the aunt, had just gone to choose some fabric for a dress for herself and when she returned a short while later, her niece was gone."

"There must have been other people around, surely. What did they say?" Sherlock enquired.

"I am about to find out, that is also why I am here, as I was sure you would like to join me. Of course, I asked the aunt, a Mrs Theodora Wolseley, but she was too shaken to give me anything of value. The father is a forbidding person, very stern, but he clearly loved his daughter. As he had not been there, he could give me no information whatsoever, just that his daughter had never given him any trouble and was, in general, a quiet and shy girl."

"Well, she had clearly gotten herself into trouble," my husband pointed at the now squirming child and I, with an exasperated sigh, called for Martha to ready yet another bottle.

"As a matter of fact, fathers rarely know, what their daughters are up to." I could not help remarking snappishly, as I picked up the infant.

"I take it you speak out of experience," Sherlock asked with his eyebrows raised and a smirk on his lips.

"Of course. By the way, brothers are no better and in regards to husbands I still have to find out." I smiled overly sweet, at which my husband was wise enough not to say anything further, sensing my irritation.

Carrying on I added: "So, if anyone knew about her condition, my guess would be on a woman, either a relative or friend. I'd start with the aunt. - The seamstress might have noticed, too of course and perhaps said something."

"So, where do we start our investigation?" Hopkins, with a frown on his young face, asked.

"I would say the dressmakers Miss Adams has visited shortly before we found her. That is from where she disappeared, never to be seen alive again. Something must have happened there for her to run out in a half-finished ball gown without a coat or proper shoes." Sherlock mused for an instant before continuing: "Unless of course she had intended to meet with somebody and realised she was late for the meeting. I remember stepping aside for a man walking past me hurriedly in the rough direction of where the body was found, though I have to admit I did not pay much attention at the time and could not say if he turned into the path that leads up to the bridge."

"Can you describe him?" Hopkins looked hopefully at my husband.

"He wore a long coat of dark colour, something like a brownish black – decent quality, but nothing remarkable. A bowler hat, and a grey muffler which covered his face. He did not have a walking stick with him and I would take him to be fairly young by the way he carried himself. He limped slightly as if he had a stiff knee, but nothing too obvious. I could not see much of his face, but he wore glasses, which were fogging up. His hight I would estimate at about 5'9, rather sturdy, but more like a sportsman than a glutton."

"This could apply to thousands of men in London."

"Yes. And as we cannot even be certain if he has anything to do with the matter, for the moment the best chance to find out something is at Madame Clairemont's."

xxx

The men left and I sent Tom with them, carrying a message for the head nurse at St. Anne's, telling her that I would be available for an emergency, but otherwise stay at home, dearly hoping I would not be called in. But considering the surplus of staff at the moment I consoled myself that it would not be very likely I should be needed. And at any rate, it reminded me, that in the long run, I would have to make a decision whether I wanted to carry on as head doctor at St. Anne's, stop working there altogether or just work there on occasion on a voluntary basis.

Taking the baby upstairs with me again as soon as I had fed it and changed the nappy, I crawled back into bed to sleep for another hour or two, if I had the chance. While I did so, it occurred to me, that while she was staying with us, we might just as well give the baby a name. I settled for Clara. Not very creative, admittedly, but since her mother must have been at Madame Clairemont just before her untimely death, it might be just as well I made a slight change to the first part of this family name.

xxx

Sherlock:

"I really have no idea how to break the news to Miss Adams' father. About the child I mean. When you meet him, you'll know what I am on about. He is fierce and he certainly loved his daughter fiercely."

This remark brought a disturbing thought to surface, which I preferred to keep to myself at present. But as it was, the baby must have come from somewhere and situations like these were not unheard of, even in the best of circles.

Trying not to jump to any conclusions before I had any solid information, I leaned back in the carriage and thought about my wife and how good it was to be back home. Even though I had hoped for something different last evening than to have us take care of a newborn child. Still, my mind had strayed in a fairly similar direction – only nine months prior to the event of holding a baby.

The cab stopped at an elegant shop in close vicinity to Regents Park, its windows presenting some examples of the latest ladies fashion from walking costumes to evening gowns. It was a colourful display and some of the more elaborate gowns I thought to be a bit over the top, clearly nothing Harriet would wear – but Anne Fraser.

We entered into a spacious reception area with some comfortable looking settee's on one side and a large mahogany counter in one corner, behind which a young woman kept the books and appointments. When we entered we were faced with several ladies of varying age waiting for their fitting, while the receptionist seemed to have expected us.

"You must be Mr Tilmore to pick up your wife's..."

Hopkins interrupted her: "No, we are actually here about Miss Adams' dress, so to speak."

"Miss Adams'?" she looked confused, then realisation seemed to dawn on her as she recalled the events of the previous afternoon. "Just one moment, please."

Retreating to the back of the shop she re-appeared a moment later with a young man in tow.

"Millicent said you are here about a particular dress if you please."

With a quick assessment, the man had recognised us as being police and now escorted us to the back of the salon.

"Is Miss Adams all right?" he enquired as soon as we were out of earshot of the many fashionable ladies, true concern showing on his open face.

Hopkins looked slightly sheepish at me. It seemed he still had not gotten used to delivering bad news. With an inward sigh, I answered in the negative.

"I am afraid young Miss Adams was found dead last evening."

"Good God! What happened? She left so quickly she was gone before I realised it. I mean, I did not realise she had left the shop."

"You were fitting her?"

"Yes, Andrew Clairemont, at your service."

"You don't quite look like a madame..." I smiled, taking in the pincushion on his wrist, the measuring tape around his neck, the thimble on his watch chain and the pair of scissors peeping out from his right-hand coat pocket.

"Madame Clairemont is my mother, but since she has lost most of her eyesight I have taken over her business. It is never very wise to change the name of a well-running business and thus my shop is still known as Madame Clairemont's. Apart from that, it seems more suitable for our establishment being a ladies dressmaker." he explained shortly, with a small grin on his features, which almost immediately turned grave again. "But alas, I am shocked about Miss Adams. She was here so I could adjust her gown for her upcoming coming out ball."

So Harriet had been right, the girl had been a débutante. A rather special one at that, considering her condition.

"Was there any apparent reason, why she might have bolted from your salon?" Hopkins, at last, joined the conversation.

"Not that I am aware of. Young Miss Fairchild arrived for her fitting and as both ladies had gone to school together and were close friends, they decided to share a fitting room. They were giggling quite happily when I left to see quickly to another customer and when I re-entered Miss Adams turned pale and ran out. I thought it might have something to do with her -"

Clairemont hesitated, obviously not sure how much he should give away. But from his behaviour, it was clear he referred to her pregnancy.

"You mean you thought it had something to do with the child she was expecting?"

He only nodded.

"How did you know about the baby?"

"I am a tailor, I have let out many dresses to accommodate a growing midsection. She cannot have been far along, but I needed to let out the waist twice already and it was a close call again this time around. But she would not let me."

"It must have been a fairly unusual situation for a débutante, must it not?"

Andrew Clairemont smiled lopsidedly: "She was not the first to be in this position, you would be surprised."

Admittedly we were.

"You said you thought it might be because of the child, was there any indication she felt unwell because of it?" I carried on, remembering my conversation with Harriet a few weeks prior.

"Not while she was here. But standing for any length of time can be trying in her situation. - My wife had quite some trouble throughout her pregnancy and felt often sick. It took me a while till I even realised she had gone not just to visit the lavatory and it was only after a good ten minutes that I really started to worry."

"And you cannot think of anything, that might have triggered her reaction?"

The young tailor shook his head, looking apologetic.

"When exactly was the appointment and at what time did Miss Adams run out of the door?"

"Her appointment was at four, Miss Fairchild's about half an hour later, but I remember her being a bit late. Well, I guess the snow was accountable for that. - And her brother, who clearly did not want to escort her here. Understandably. It must have been around a quarter to five then, when she left, give or take a few minutes. – She did not even take her coat."

"How could she leave the salon without anybody seeing her leave? I cannot imagine the front room was any less occupied."

Clairemont pointed at a door at the end of the corridor in which we stood. "This door leads to the lavatory, but it also gives access to a back door, which she must have taken."

This explained how everyone could think of her having gone no further than the bathroom.

"Are her clothes still here?"

"Yes, if you would like to see them."

"We will take them if you do not mind."

"Not under these circumstances." was the quiet reply as the man walked over to a shelf and pulled out a bundle of neatly folded clothes.

"Could you give me the address of this Miss – Fairchild, was it?" Hopkins pulled out his notebook and Andrew Clairemont gladly supplied us with it.

"If there is anything I can do to help you any further, please let me know."

Escorting us out one more question had to be asked: "You would not know who might be the father of the child, Mr Clairemont?"

"No, she never even mentioned a man other than her father and she never spoke of her condition. I do know, that she was not engaged to be married, but she was pretty, so she might have had the one or other suitor. Her aunt may know. Miss Adams' mother died when she was very young as I understand it and Mrs Wolseley, having no children of her own, after her own husband's death some years ago, took to care for her niece. - At least that is what I could gather from what the told me or spoke to one another."