The days of war are the days when men
find their hearts aflame with emotion. To serve the cause of one’s nation,
one’s beliefs and one’s freedom, was to have purpose and meaning. In those
trying days of the greatest war that humanity has ever seen, Holmes and I had
neither. We were among the aged. Our pride was great but our aged bodies near
useless. There was little we could do to contribute to the war effort. We spent
our days reading every inch of the newspaper with unwavering attention looking
for anything at all to hold Holmes’s interest.
Sometimes I would volunteer at
hospitals, though there was never much for me to do. The young flocked busily
from bed to bed healing the steady stream of wounded. But they would often ask
for my advice on matters which lent me some degree of usefulness that Holmes
could not attain. As a result, he surged into black moods often, unable to
accept the ignominy that a lack of functionality is wont to produce.
On
one such evening in the spring of 1917, upon returning from a hospital, I found
Holmes sitting in the parlour smoking his pipe in uncharacteristic calm.
I sat down on my chair and began to
shuffle through the evening paper. “My word, Holmes,” I muttered, more to
myself than him really, “They still haven’t caught that Alistair Snow. What a ruckus
the bastard’s causing.”
Holmes began to hum in reply.
“I say, you’re awfully cheerful. What
could have caused it?” By way of an answer he handed me a note.
Newminster
Abbey,
Morpeth,
Northumberland
25th March, 1917
Dear Mr. Holmes,
Upon finding myself
in rather curious circumstances, I seem to be in need of your assistance. I
would be most obliged if you would come and investigate the matter as it isn’t
something that I can put on paper. I must apologize for not being able to call
upon you myself. I am old and frail and I’m afraid my body will not be able to
sustain a journey to London. However I remain very much in need of your counsel
and your help.
Yours faithfully,
Lord de Merlay
“What do you make of it, Watson?” he
announced, not entirely without his customary indulgent mockery.
“I see that you have a paranoid lord on
your hands. But not much else.”
With a condescending puff of smoke he
said, “You disappoint me, my dear Watson! Once again you see but do not
understand! Tell me again what you see.”
“It is typed.” I said without much
assurance.
“And what does that tell you?”
“Not very much. Why should anyone wish
to type such a small note? It might have been more insightful if it were
handwritten.”
“Precisely, Watson! Why type indeed?
Because our writer is blind!”
“Blind!” I exclaimed bewildered, “How
can you be so certain?”
“Because Watson, he is suspicious. He
does not trust anyone enough to have dictated this note. He thought it prudent
to write it himself. So surely, Watson, he would have written it by hand unless
he was quite incapable of it. There’s nothing wrong with his hands evidently. He
must therefore be blind.”
As ever, he sat smug in his armchair,
knowing that the present company has been impressed. In the years that we spent
in the parlour of 221B Baker Street, the furniture, the walls and the very air
must have become entrenched with the heavy smell of tobacco, yet Holmes did not
fail to astonish.
“How do you feel about a trip to the
moors, Watson?”
“You can’t be considering taking this
case, surely? Why, it doesn’t even say what is ever so suspicious!” Of late,
very little intrigued Holmes enough for him to come out of his black moods, and
certainly never enough for him to actually accept a case. Furthermore he had
come to detest the idea of leaving London. He insisted that the bustle kept him
sane and thus he continued quite vehemently, to encumber Mrs. Hudson’s
existence with his ever growing eccentricities.
“I wonder Watson, if you’ve read any of Mr. Arthur
Cavill’s novels?”
“Why, Holmes, I don’t believe there’s a soul in
England who hasn’t!”
“Do you think that Mr. Cavill would make a reasonable
detective?”
“I should think he would make and excellent one, if I
were to judge by the quality of his novels.”
“Then if Mr. Cavill found something suspicious, would
you not consider it worth investigating?”
“Certainly, but Mr. Cavill hasn’t found anything
suspicious has he?”
And it was then that it finally dawned on me that the
acclaimed Mr. Cavill and Lord de Merlay must indeed be one and the same person.
“My dear chap! However did you know?” I exclaimed.
“Watson, there is really no point in divulging my methods
to you. Because when I have, you shall claim, as ever, at how absurdly simple
it is.”
“And when has that stopped you telling me anyway?” I
laughed.
“Very well then. Notice the peculiar typeface. It from
a Hansen Writing Ball which disappeared from the markets about a decade ago.
Mr. Cavill is said to possess the very last of the Writing Balls in Britain.
Now you may
recall that a few years ago, we were required to call at the publishing house
while investigating the Cornish horror for Mycroft. Mr. Cavill’s manuscript
happened to be lying upon the editor’s desk when we spoke to him. I was thus able
to examine it. The typeface on the manuscript and that on this note are exactly
identical. Therefore I must conclude
that the famous Mr. Arthur Cavill is a pseudonym used by Lord de Merlay. So Watson,
what say you? Shall we pay Mr. Cavill a visit?”
**
It was dusk by the time we
reached Morpeth, the nearest town with a railway station. The vast expanse of
Newminster Abbey loomed afore us by the light of the dying day, reaching into
the sky alone from a bed of heathery meadows. Despite the fact that we had
notified the Lord of our arrival, we had not been received at the station. As our
cab came to a stop upon the driveway, darkness had fallen. A footman came to
meet us. We told him that the Lord was expecting us.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but
I’m afraid you haven’t heard. His Lordship died earlier today.”
“Dear God! Died!” I
exclaimed in utter shock, “How?”
“When was he found?”
demanded Holmes.
“At about noon today, sir.
His valet found him.”
“Oh, well it’s a good thing we’re here then.”
Holmes said hastily, “He summoned us from London, asking for assistance about a
private matter. Would you be so kind as to show us to the Lady de Merlay,
please? Say that Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson have come as per her
late husband’s request. ”
“Of course, sir.” Said the
lad and led us in to a library to await her Ladyship. It was by far the largest
and certainly the oldest library I had ever laid eyes upon, with the entirety
of the walls covered in volumes, ancient and new. It was furnished with plush
sofas and armchairs, and had a rather opulent looking rug on the floor, and yet
they were worn and faded with age. And
of course, there before us was a shelf containing the relatively new, hardbound
copies of all of Arthur Cavill’s life’s work. Holmes noticed my lingering gaze,
and allowed himself a small self-satisfied smile.
The butler came in shortly,
a rotund man of great age, but still standing proud and straight in his
immaculate livery. He explained that the Lady de Merlay was quite naturally,
indisposed and announced the new Lord of Newminster, a young man called Buford de
Merlay.
“Thank you Jameson. Could
you perhaps arrange for some tea to be sent up?” said the young Lord.
“Of course, my Lord.” Said
Jameson the butler, and left our company.
“I understand that you were invited by my
father?” the Lord asked with a measured degree of hostility. He was of smallish
built, but rather thick, with stocky arms and shoulders and had a peculiarly
burnt tone to his skin. He looked terribly ill at ease, as if his collar was
suffocating him. He did not take a seat, and instead paced about the room.
Holmes on the contrary, was seated comfortably upon the sofa, in his
customarily cool demeanor, leaning back and smoking his pipe. I believe he did
this to misleadingly give the impression of boredom, or of vague interest, when
in truth, his mind was working sharper than a dagger.
With the most deliberately
exhaled smoke, he said quietly, “You understand quite correctly. It is my
belief that your father was murdered. If I may ask, does the scene of crime
remain unmolested?”
The indelicacy of such a
direct question caused the young Lord’s brimming animosity to spill over at
once. “Murdered! That is absurd! He
died in his sleep! Mr. Holmes, I do not think highly of members of your
profession. And given the loss that we have just suffered, I find it rather
sordid of you to waltz in with such disrespect for our sensibilities.”
“I apologize if I have given
offense, sir.” Holmes said in much the same tone, quite unperturbed by the
outburst, “I assure you, it was never my intention. I understand that this must
indeed be a difficult time to suffer the impunity of strangers.”
There was a short and
efficient knock on the door.
“Ah! That will be the
Inspector.” said Holmes to the infuriated little Lord, “I took the liberty of
inviting him. I hope you won’t mind?”
Jameson the butler scrambled
in with a large tea tray and announced hurriedly the arrival of Inspector
Galbraith, who, it would appear, was threatening to enter the room unannounced,
much to Jameson’s horror. Clearly, he had narrowly avoided scandal.
The burly Inspector Galbraith marched
straight up to Holmes, without very much regard for his Lordship, and declared
in a most impassioned voice, “Mr. Holmes! What an honour! Your reputation
precedes you, sir.”
Holmes chuckled in amusement, “Is that
so?” glancing toward the Lord Buford, he said, “And here I thought it was my
notoriety. I hope you won’t mind assisting us with a case, Inspector? There has
been..... a murder. ” he said with much flourish.
“Murder!” the Inspector boomed “Why it
will be my great pleasure, Mr. Holmes!”
“Excellent!” said Holmes, with a clap of
his hands. “We make for the scene of crime! Jameson, would you be so good as to
show us the way? Come, Watson!”
Jameson looked uneasily at his master’s
disapproving face. But his master had been cornered and thus had to nod in
spite of his rage. So Jameson uttered, “Certainly, sir.” in a small, meek
voice.
As ever, I was left to deal with the
awkwardness. Turning to the ignored Lord, I thanked him for his hospitality
before exiting the library.
**
The late Lord de Merlay’s bed chamber,
the scene of crime, was a spacious room with a high vaulted ceiling. It was
located in the higher levels of the eastern tower and was thus semi-circular in
shape. The curtains were drawn on the glass windows facing east. They were
peculiarly large and well crafted to have been part of the original medieval
castle. They must have been installed later.
The furniture was rather grandiose. A
large, unmade, four -poster bed was positioned upon the diameter of the
semicircular room. Towards the left end of the room, there stood a great
cupboard made of apple wood, with a key left in the hole. On the opposite wall,
there was a large, ornate fireplace with just embers left. Before it were two
large arm chairs that were equidistant from the coffee table between them. Near
the window was a writing desk upon which was a peculiar curiosity: the Hansen
Writing Ball. And there was a relatively austere looking chair facing outward. There
was also, a couch, and a foot stool a few steps to the left of the desk, upon
which the deceased lay. He was the very image of a peaceful death, lying with
his eyes shut and hands folded upon his chest.
Just as we were entered the room,
preparations were being made by the coroner’s men to have the body moved. The
Inspector bade them to wait. The coroner, who was a wiry little man of middling
age, called Dr. Moseley, believed the time of death to be between 4am and 6am.
With his balding head and round gold rimmed spectacles, he demanded of us “the
meaning of all of this.” Galbraith explained to him our suspicions of foul
play.
“But that is ridiculous!” said Moseley.
“He clearly died of natural causes! And besides, I have found nothing whatever
to suggest that anything at all is amiss.”
“My dear Dr. Moseley,” said Holmes
absently as he noted every little detail of the room, “I urge you to conduct an
autopsy of the deceased. I can assure you that you will find a great deal
amiss.”
“And how can you be so sure, sir?”
“Well, sir, Mr. Holmes and I received a
letter from his lordship yesterday morning, where he confided in us his
suspicions. And we arrive here today to find him dead. It would therefore be
only reasonable to at least investigate the possibility of foul play in the
matter.”
“Quite right, Watson.” said Holmes as he
looked out of the window. “Tell me Jameson, has anything been touched or moved
at all since this appalling discovery?”
“Not that I know, sir. But it does
appear that things are much the same as they were this afternoon.”
“Thank you, Jameson. Besides what Watson
has just pointed out, can you tell me Dr. Moseley, why, if the Lord had died
naturally, he was not in his bed? It is rather cold, is it not? Can you think
of any reason why he should leave the comfort of his bed for his couch where
there isn’t even a cover?”
Moseley’s face began to contort to painful
confusion.
“Notice also, the position of the chair.
Compare it to the careful symmetry of the room. It has been used. Quite possibly
by either the victim or the perpetrator of the crime. Jameson, could you please
ensure that the room remains as it is till I have finished my examination?”
“Certainly, sir. If I may ask, would you
gentlemen care for some supper?” And to that, everyone, with the exception of
Holmes, could only rejoice.
Supper was served in a large, draughty
dining hall, which, it would seem, no amount of candles could have sufficiently
light. The walls of this section of castle were too old, too frail and filled
with rubble. The merest disturbance would cause the entire wall to topple down
at once, making the introduction of
electricity upon this room quite impossible. The family did not use this room
unless there had a large number of guests. They took their meals in a smaller
room that had been converted to a dining room. That was why, our aggrieved
hosts had elected to remain absent from our table. They did not take kindly to
our intrusion, understandably. Over supper, Holmes expressed a wish of
questioning the servants. Jameson agreed to facilitate.
Lord de Merlay’s valet was the first to
be brought in, naturally. Brunting was a man in his thirties, who had upon that
morning, we gathered, been rather unwell, by which he meant that he had a bit
too much to drink the night before. As a consequence, he had been rather late
for work.
“And are you ‘unwell’ often?” Holmes
enquired.
“No sir. Fact is, Lord Buford came from
town yesterday and said there was a fair. Some of the servants wished to go, and
Mr. Jameson saw no harm in it, if we went after dinner. Lord Buford was also
going and so he drove us there too.”
Thereafter Brunting indulged in petty
vices and we gauged that he spent the better part of the night passed out in a
ditch. All the others had come back with Lord Buford. When they could not find
him, they presumed that he must have gotten caught up somewhere.
He
reached the Abbey only at about ten thirty in the morning, and he was quite
relieved to find that Lord de Merlay had not rung for him since morning. The
Lord customarily broke his fast by himself in his tower, and the family only
saw him at lunchtime, so that he had not been missed in all this while. By the
time Brunting was washed and dressed, and had been sufficiently berated by Jameson,
it was eleven thirty. The Lord had not rung still. So he decided to see if his
lordship was quite all right. But when he found the door locked, he went to
find the housekeeper, Mrs Trevor, with whom all the spare keys were kept. A
worried Mrs. Trevor had fretted and fussed that an old, ill and sightless man
shouldn’t be in the habit of locking his door and accompanied him to his
Lordship’s room. Here they both found him lying still, upon the couch. Once the
discovery of his lack of breath was made, Mrs Trevor wailed in despair. She
herself was older than the hills and had known the Lord since his youth.
When asked where this Mrs. Trevor was,
Brunting said he had not seen her since he left the room to inform the family
of the tragedy. As it appeared, neither had anyone else. The maid we sent to
look for her came back and informed us that Mrs. Trevor appeared to have packed
and fled. Her room was empty. There was no note to offer an explanation. It was
most puzzling.
“Do you know if she has any family or
friends nearby?” Holmes asked the maid.
“No sir. She used to have a nephew, but
he died in the war last year. And I don’t think she ever married. But we called
her a Mrs. just the same.”
“And this Mrs. Trevor, did she go to the
fair with you all?”
“No sir. She never went to town. I’ve
been here six years and didn’t see her leave once.”
Holmes thanked her and dismissed her.
Then quite suddenly he said, “Why Watson! You must be tired! Forgive me, my
dear friend. In all this hullabaloo, we entirely forgot to arrange for
accommodation.” Galbraith said he could be of assistance. He could drive us to
the town of Morpeth where there were a couple of comfortable inns. He had
stationed two men outside the crime scene to ensure nothing was disturbed so it
was quite alright for us to call it a day. He would fetch us from there the
following morning.
We were taken to the first inn, the Half
Hoof. Holmes asked me to wait in the car for some time and disappeared into the
building. He came out a while later and declared that it was not to his taste.
He should like to be taken to the other inn.
**
When we arrived at Newminster the next
morning, Holmes insisted on seeing the Lady de Merlay. Once again, Jameson
ushered us into a parlour where her Ladyship was seated in the company of Lord
Buford, and two other gentlemen who turned out to be lawyers. Mr. Fox and Mr. Mandel
were here to discuss matters of inheritance. The Lady de Merlay was a small,
frail creature, much younger than her late husband. Yet her face showed signs of spirit and
strength her body did not. She spoke sparingly, but with poised authority, and
she made her displeasure towards us quite apparent.
Holmes, of course, disregarded it entirely,
and intruded upon their conversation till he was able to discern that Buford de
Merlay was not Lord Buford de Merlay, and that it would take a while for him to
attain the title. The Lord de Merlay had disowned him, when twelve years ago,
in a fit of revolutionary zeal, Buford had denounced the aristocracy, his
birth, title and wealth. Thereafter he had escaped to the continent to fight
for the plight of the proletariat. The family had not heard from him
thereafter, till just the beginning of March when he returned, claiming to have
been disillusioned by the “communists and their savagery.” The reinstatement of
his title was expected to be a long and tedious legal process, given that he had been disinherited.
“How unfortunate for your son, madam.” I
exclaimed with genuine sympathy. To my great surprise, the Lady de Merlay
tightened her lips in discomfiture.
“I am not her son.” said Buford. “She is
my step-mother. My real mother died when I was much younger.”
“Quite right.” said the Lady stiffly.
“I’ve not been fortunate enough to have had children of my own.”
As I began making apologetic noises to
have brought up such an uncomfortable topic, Holmes began to sniff at the air. I
had never known Holmes to take the slightest interest in any matters of
domesticity, yet quite suddenly he asked, “My Lady, your parlour smells so
exuberantly of cinnamon! It is most delightful to the senses! If I may ask, how
have you achieved this?”
With a look of bewilderment she said,
“The furniture. It is rubbed with cinnamon oil.” In an afterthought, she added,
“It reminds me of my childhood, in the Spice Islands. Now, if you will excuse
me gentlemen, it is time I saw to the funeral arrangements.”
With that our meeting was adjourned.
Holmes insisted that we renew our questioning of the servants. But the only
member of staff who wasn’t occupied at the time was the boy who ran errands. We
found him loitering around the back gardens in blissful abandon and not a care
in the world. I asked him to recount his experience of the last two days. In
tedious detail he informed us of his rows with the cook for sneaking scraps out
of the kitchen, his misadventures in the empty parts of the castle. Holmes was
dismissive of him mostly, till he said that earlier, on the night that the
murder was committed, Jameson had given him a list of things to fetch in the morning.
He produced this list with great eagerness and on it there was written in
precise little letters, ink for the
writing ball.
At once Holmes rushed up to the Lord’s
bedchamber. I followed him a little belatedly, having thanked the boy for his
account. I found Holmes seated upon the desk dismantling the writing ball.
“How fortunate for us that the ink ran
out Watson! Look! We have a message from the late Lord!”
And so it was! A handful of letters had
no ink on them whatsoever. I noted them quickly: OSTIERMP.
“Someone has removed the paper on which
the message was written, Watson. Lord de Merlay wrote this as he was dying.
Happily for us, the ink finished!”
We descended to the servant’s quarters.
Holmes in great impatience asked Jameson to bring him Buford’s valet at once. Buford
le Merlay’s valet was brought. He was a nervous boy of twenty, who stood as
straight and stiff as a lamppost before us. We urged him to sit, but he
declined quite insistently.
“Very well then,” said Holmes, “I have
only one question to ask of you: have you ever noticed any peculiar habit that
your master has? Anything at all?”
“Well sir, not meaning to speak against
him sir, Lord Buford is most kind, but there is indeed something. A peculiarity
that is. It’s just that ever since he came back sir, he’s worn the same
waistcoat. He never lets me wash it, or take it. He wears the same one every day,
sir.” And then he hastily added, “Not that I presume to comment upon his
toilette or his hygiene, sir, begging your pardon.”
“How extraordinary!” said Holmes, “You
have my thanks.” With that the boy scarpered off in great relief. “Well,
Watson? Do you have any theories yet?”
I didn’t so I was glad when Jameson
interrupted us to inform us that the coroner had arrived with news. We went up
to the library where we found the family and Galbraith and Moseley waiting for
us.
At once Moseley declared “Well Mr.
Holmes, you were right! It is indeed murder! Some sort of poison that has
paralyzed both his nerves and his muscles. Unfortunately, I cannot identify the
poison itself. It will require a better man than I.”
Everybody looked towards Holmes to say
something insightful. Holmes for his part, remained seated with his eyes shut
and his hands together under his chin. The better part of a minute had passed
when Holmes jumped up and said quite brightly, “Gentleman! What say we go for a
drive? A bit of air ought to give us some perspective.”
Rather to my astonishment, Holmes
expressed a wish to drive. Normally he detested it, and quite rightly so. He
was a terrible driver. We rode around the country, the five of us men: Holmes
driving and whistling and the rest of us baffled out of our brains as to the
point of this sudden excursion. It had rained the night before. The soil was
damp and the inner tracks were downright muddy. Presently, we came upon a muddy
bend. Holmes quite successfully managed to get the tyre caught in the mud, as I
knew he would. There was much disgruntlement as we got out of the car and took
off our coats and rolled up our sleeves to heave the tyre out of the mud. As
soon as the car was free, we elected to return and get ourselves cleaned up
before luncheon.
**
“Gentlemen, I have solved the case.” announced
Holmes in the parlour where we had gathered before luncheon. “Jameson, would
you be kind enough to request Lady de Merlay to join us?”
“What is the meaning of this? How can
you have come to a conclusion so soon?” demanded the Lady as she entered.
“Calm yourself, madam. And take a seat
please. It will become clear quite soon.
“The instrument of murder was the poison
known as fugu in Japanese. The puffer
fish. I was able to identify it from the effects described by Dr. Moseley
earlier today. It is commonly found in the South China Sea. Now, Mr. de Merlay,
you claim to have spent the last twelve years upon the continent?”
“Yes.” he replied gruffly.
“And which continent would this be?
Certainly not Europe if your tan is anything to go by. I think it is more
likely that you were in Indonesia.”
“That is ridiculous! What proof have you
of these absurd allegations?”
“There is your tan, as I said, which one
can acquire if enough years are spent under a tropical sun. Then there is your
built, which suggests that you have spent time working on ships. You are
uncomfortable in these horribly proper English clothes. But the most telling
evidence I have to offer is your waistcoat. If you would kindly take off your
coat and raise your arms, sir, it would be most helpful.”
De Merlay’s face turned white. There was
little he could do but oblige.
“If you look upon the seam on the
right,” said Holmes, “You will see there is a small button, very well hidden,
just near the edge of the sleeve. Mr. de Merlay, I wonder if you could take it
off and hand it to the good Inspector.”
Once again, he obliged.
“Good god, Holmes! Was this the point of
the driving excursion? Absolutely brilliant!” I said in amazement.
“Indeed. Inspector, if you would just
undo the button, you ought to find some way that the seam will open easily.” It
did and out fell several small sealed envelopes.
“Opium!” exclaimed Galbraith, “How ever
did you know?”
“I was alerted about an imposter by the
late Lord de Merlay. Earlier today, the errand boy told me that he had been
asked to fetch typewriting ink. Which naturally means that the existing pad of
ink is nearly finished.
Now consider the Lord le Merlay, who has
written several brilliant detective stories. The effects of the puffer fish
poison can begin anywhere between half an hour later and three hours after
consumption. It begins slowly and can take hours to paralyze the entire body.
The final effect is upon the lungs, after which the victim’s life is
extinguished. When Lord de Morley realized he was dying, he knew he had to
leave a clue. He must have made his way to the desk where he typed the word
IMPOSTER with his failing hands. The letters Watson noted, OSTIERMP. How
fortunate for us that no letter repeats itself in that word, or we would never
know. The Lord then made his way to couch where he knew he would be found dead.
That was the final teller. If it wasn’t murder, why should he have gone to
sleep on the couch uncovered in the cold when his bed is but a few steps away?
The imposter was quite obviously Mr.
Buford here, who arrived just a few weeks back. He is really Mr. Alistair Snow,
the smuggler that Scotland Yard has been hunting for in the past few weeks. His
misadventures as a smuggler upon tropical waters would have given him easy
access to puffer fish, which I presume he brought here in powder form. And now
gentlemen, we must ask ourselves how Mr. Snow and the Lady de Merlay became
accomplices in murder, because it was Lady de Merlay who administered the
poison. Either one of them, or both could have removed the paper saying
IMPOSTER from the Writing Ball yesterday morning.”
Ever a lover of drama, Holmes took great
satisfaction in seeing the shock on the faces around the room. “After the
members of this household had left for the fair that night, Mrs. Trevor brought
coffee for the Lord and Lady, following which she was dismissed. It was
naturally quite an easy thing for Lady de Merlay to have slipped the poison in
her husband’s coffee.”
“But how did you know that Mrs. Trevor
had brought them coffee?” asked Galbraith.
“Why I had the fortune of meeting the
good Mrs. Trevor last night, Inspector. Seeing as she left by foot she could
have only travelled as far as the town, given her great age. In the absence of
friends or family, it was quite natural that she should seek the hospitality of
an inn. And of those there are only two. If she wasn’t there in one, she therefore
must have been in the other. She was the only one among the staff to have been
here before Lady de Merlay so she knew things. She feared her knowledge would
cost her life and so she fled at once.
She told me of a horrible scandal that
had been contained many, many years ago. The Lady de Merlay, by her own
admission had spent her childhood in the Spice Islands where I understand, her
father’s business was based. She had been involved in an affair with her
father’s estate manager, Mr. Ludlow, who had a mop of the most brilliant fiery
red hair. But she was to marry Lord de Merlay. Mrs. Trevor soon noticed that if
ever Mr. Ludlow happened to be in the country for business, Lady de Merlay would
suddenly have urgent business to attend to in London. Now, being fiercely dedicated
to the Lord de Merlay, she found this disloyalty terribly cruel. Yet soon
after, the Lady de Merlay was pregnant, and the Lord was beside himself with joy.
He would have an heir at last. So Mrs. Trevor decided that she would not spoil
his lordship’s happiness. But it would appear that the Lady de Merlay was to
have a miscarriage. The very day of the tragedy, the midwife who had been
assisting the Lady disappeared. She had been a friend to Mrs. Trevor. They had
been schoolmates as children. Many months later, she received a letter from the
Spice Islands. It was from her friend, the midwife.
Now that the story has been told, let us
fit the puzzle pieces together and tell it again. The miscarriage was staged to
smuggle out Mr. Snow, whose natural hair colour, I believe, is not this common
opaque black, but the same bright red as that of Mr. Ludlow. Afraid that her
husband, whose eyesight was as good as anyone’s then, would discover her
secret, Lady de Merlay arranged for the midwife to take the baby away to Mr.
Ludlow, who then arranged their passage to the Spice Islands where Mr. Snow
grew up. In any case, once I was aware of Lady de Merlay’s roots, it would
require the most alarming of coincidences for them to not share some link.
Especially since Mr. Snow has been a constant sensation over the newspapers
this past few weeks.
When Lord de Merlay grew blind with age,
Lady de Merlay saw a chance of advancement for her son. She had heard, of
course, of the child of the Lord’s previous wife, the real Buford de Merlay. The
true Communist. If her own son were to come back in his place after so many
years, who would be able to tell? Certainly not the blind Lord. And yet somehow
you aroused his suspicion and he wrote asking my help. As a consequence,
Watson, I now have the satisfaction of having done something! I have caught us
a smuggler!”
***
