Chapter 14: Holmes

The detective continued, undaunted by his companion’s annoyance. “I also wished to share the information right before we see the man. I thought it might inflame you to your present state of aggravation, which I hope will prove helpful in our exchange.”

In a moment, The Woman had stepped in front of Holmes and turned around, effectively barring him from continuing down the lane. He looked down at her with a mixture of amusement and perplexity.

“I am glad I’m able to provide you with the day’s entertainment,” she said, “but before we continue to the man’s house, I insist on a full explanation of what you intend to do. I have been content with limited information when my own safety was in question, but I see no reason such reticence should be necessary now.”

“No matter,” said Holmes. “It’s just that I had anticipated the value of having someone with me who is less knowledgeable and therefore likely to perform naturally.”

Irene sniffed. “Holmes, your powers of manipulation grow ever larger with each passing day. Dr Watson credits you with a straightforwardness that you begin to lack. Perhaps I should tell the poor man to watch out for your machinations.” She spit out the words with great pique, but as she did so, she moved out of the way and allowed the detective to continue walking.

“I take it you agree to leave me to my methods,” said the detective mildly.

“I wish I didn’t trust you as much as I do,” said The Woman. “I will consent to be the ignorant partner. Do you have anything you wish me to say or do?” As much as she tried to seem resigned, she was, he thought, also filled with a conspiratorial sense of excitement.

“Simply play along and act as you normally would,” said Holmes.

“Very well,” she answered, as they approached the low brick building that housed the office of Charles Stevenson.

A ring of the bell produced a short young man who looked as if he was so clean he was likely to sweat soapsuds if warmed. “What is your business?” he asked curtly. “You have no appointment.”

Holmes cleared his throat. “Please inform Mr Stevenson that Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler wish to speak with him.”

The young man looked up at the detective, seeming to evaluate whether or not it was within his ability to get rid of the visitors himself. Holmes stared down at him sharply until he dropped his gaze and ushered the companions inside, disappearing behind a closed door.

The barrister’s vestibule was furnished simply, but the wood of the young clerk’s desk was of the highest quality, as was the bench on which Holmes and Irene took their seats without being asked. The companions waited five minutes and then ten. “Do you think he means to bore us into losing interest?” asked The Woman.

“No,” said the detective, “but he does mean to make us uncomfortable, something he does very well in the courtroom, I’d imagine.”

“Have you never seen him perform his role as legal advocate?” Irene enquired. “I understood him to be very active in London.”

“I have heard of him, but our paths have not crossed,” said Holmes. “I would expect him to have heard of me.”

The door opened again, and out stepped Charles Stevenson, barrister, wearing a suit that Holmes priced at roughly the yearly income of one of the men who worked on the Phillimore farm. “Please come in,” said his smooth voice, and the detective and his companion passed into a large, dark office. The clerk went back to his desk, giving Holmes a cold glance as he did so.

“You’ll have to forgive my young man,” said Stevenson, motioning to the two to sit down. “His father is a peer, and it seems to have affected his disposition.” He laughed drily. “A peer with no money to speak of, but still, a peer.” Holmes thought that it must have been one of the man’s great regrets that he himself had not been born to rank.

Stevenson sat down behind his desk and folded his long, pale fingers. “Well, Mr Holmes,” he said, “I can’t fathom that the great detective of Baker Street has come to me for legal advocacy.”

“I would like your help,” said Holmes deferentially. “I’ve been retained by Edith Phillimore to investigate the circumstances of her husband’s unfortunate death, but I find the details very difficult to unravel,” he lied smoothly. “If you have any information that might help, I’d be indebted to you. As you know, villages are very difficult places to glean anything of value. A great deal of talk goes on, without clarity or intelligence.”

The barrister smiled. “I hardly think that you, Mr Holmes, would be foiled by the unreliability of village gossip. I thank you for your flattery, but it is unnecessary. I will help you in any way I can.”

Holmes smiled. “Excellent. As you were on hand the day the body was discovered, I hoped you might shed a little light on the circumstances. I’ve spoken to Dr Clarke, but he was so focused on the corpse that I fear he may have missed some of the surrounding details that a man of your expertise would have noticed.”

Stevenson leaned forward, and his fine white hair fell over his forehead. The detective noted that he appeared to relish the opportunity to give his account. “I only learned of the unfortunate event because I was supping at the home of the good doctor that night. We went to the house together and found them laying out the poor man’s body. It was obvious he’d been killed long before, but still an arresting sight. The widow was distraught.”

“If you don’t mind a question, who fetched the doctor?”

“Mrs Merriwether, the cook at Oakhill Farm.”

“Were the police present when you arrived?”

“Only just. Graves has been resident in the village for the duration of the investigation of the disappearance, and he roused Chipping and those ridiculous boys. It’s a good thing they didn’t find any evidence. With their methods, I doubt it would hold up in court.”

“You favour the London police, then?” asked Holmes.

“On the contrary,” said Stevenson. “They’re equally inept, but with fancier pedigrees.” Holmes didn’t particularly like the man, but he had to agree. “I remained at the house until Dr Clarke left. Miss Adler saw me just prior to our departure.”

“True,” said Irene.

“Had you any theories about Phillimore’s disappearance before that time?” Holmes asked.

“None whatsoever,” said Stevenson.

“Thank you,” said Holmes, “you’ve been very helpful,” though he was thinking the opposite. “Miss Adler, I believe we may take our leave.”

“Won’t you stay for a cup of tea?” asked the barrister, looking as if he didn’t mean it.

“I think not,” said Holmes. “We have other pressing engagements.” The young man showed the detective and The Woman out in the manner of a housewife throwing rubbish into the dustbin.

Once outside, Irene looked up at Holmes in perplexity. “If you’ve managed to glean something important from that conversation, then you’ve outstripped me by miles.”

“Few miles,” Holmes answered. “The man is less susceptible to appeals to his vanity than I’d anticipated. We do know now that Mrs Merriwether sounded the initial alarm, though this was a frustratingly elaborate way to arrive at that detail.”

“I don’t believe my ignorance was of much assistance after all,” said Irene, “though I did appreciate your subservient act.”

“I confess,” said Holmes, “that I hoped the man would betray that he knew something of his daughter’s predicament.”

“An excellent motive,” The Woman murmured.

“Still a possible one,” said Holmes, “but if it is true, we will have to discover it by different means.”

“I almost think I prefer cases in which my own life is in danger,” said Irene. “The excitement is much enhanced.”

“Stay the course,” said Holmes. “We will find the murderer.”

“Do you not worry that he or she will have fled?”

“No,” said Holmes. “A person who places a corpse or arranges for a corpse to be placed in as prominent a location as Phillimore’s murderer did is almost certain to remain and survey the effects of his handiwork.”

“Insanity?”

“Not necessarily, but a desire for recognition, certainly.”

“Then why not confess, as some do, and receive all the credit?”

“I believe our murderer feels stronger than that, invincible and not susceptible to detection. Of course, in truth, all murderers are susceptible to detection because they invariably make mistakes.”

Holmes would have continued to speak, but as he and Irene turned to start up the hill to the cottage, a yell behind them stopped them in their tracks. The detective turned to see the frantic form of Edith Phillimore, flushed and wild-eyed as she approached.

“Whatever is the matter?” asked Irene.

“It’s Eliza,” panted the breathless woman. “I can’t find her anywhere.”

I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.

- The Man with the Twisted Lip