An Affair of the Heart
By Mark Mower
Mark Mower is a member of the Crime Writers’ Association, the Sherlock Holmes Society of London and the Solar Pons Society of London. He writes true crime stories and fictional mysteries. His first two volumes of Holmes pastiches were entitled A Farewell to Baker Street and Sherlock Holmes: The Baker Street Case-Files (both with MX Publishing) and, to date, he has contributed chapters to seven parts of The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories. He has also had stories in two anthologies by Belanger Books: Holmes Away From Home: Adventures from the Great Hiatus — Volume II: 1893–1894 (2016) and Sherlock Holmes: Before Baker Street (2017). More are bound to follow.
Amber Tutwiler (b. 1988) is an emerging artist from South Florida. Her work is a meditation on interface; specifically, it is concerned with the interface between our physical, corporeal world and the digital landscape arising from the world. Focusing on an interdisciplinary practice, she works across oil painting, sculpture and installation, audio, video, and performance. She attended Alexander W. Dreyfoos School of the Arts, Massachusetts College of Art and Design, and received her MFA in Visual Art from Florida Atlantic University (2017). From 2017–2018, she completed a residency at the Armory Art Center in West Palm Beach, Florida. She is an adjunct instructor at Florida Atlantic University and Palm Beach State College. She has won various awards, including the Women in Visual Arts Scholarship, the Thesis and Dissertation Scholarship, and the Williamsburg Painting Award. In 2018, she had her first solo exhibition, Interface, at the Fritz Gallery, and collaborated as Creative Designer with Lauren Carey of Ballet Florida in an immersive dance, Welcome. In this time, she has established West Palm Beach’s only artist collective, H/OURS Collective.
Artwork size: 18” × 24”
Medium: Oil on Canvas
In my long association with Sherlock Holmes, I only ever knew him to be an honourable and loyal friend, who could be relied upon to act with the utmost tact and discretion on any matters of a personal nature. So it was that when I found myself embroiled in a distinctly delicate family matter in the autumn of 1886, it was to Holmes that I naturally deferred.
We were sitting in the congenial surroundings of Brown’s Hotel in Albemarle Street having just met with the establishment’s proprietor in his newly refurbished lounge bar. Holmes had been engaged to tackle a potentially damaging case of jewellery theft from one of the more expensive suites in the hotel, occupied at that time by a crown prince from Eastern Europe. I had high hopes that this would turn out to be a colourful and absorbing episode, which might showcase my friend’s remarkable talents. In reality, what I had envisaged somewhat prematurely as The Curious Case of the Ukrainian Emerald was solved by Holmes in less than half an hour, leading to the very public arrest by Scotland Yard of both the crown prince and his criminally-complicit manservant. It was clearly not the outcome that the hotel owner had anticipated and, having paid Holmes very discreetly for his services, the red-faced manager left us to finish what remained of our strong Turkish coffee and Panamanian cigars.
Holmes turned towards me with a telling grin. “Not one for your journal then, Watson? I fear that a simple case of insurance fraud is unlikely to excite the interests of your expectant readers. Still, while we have a quiet moment, it might be a good time for you to share with me the concerns you have about your nephew Christopher’s impending marriage to Mrs Virginia Aston-Cowper.”
His offhand comment caught me completely by surprise. “Holmes, I had no idea that you had spoken recently to young Christopher. I do indeed have some reservations about the match, but cannot see how my nephew knows of these—it is a good six months since we last had any sort of conversation. In any case, it was only four days ago that I received the wedding invitation, which, I have to say, came very much out of the blue.”
“My dear friend, I have had no such conversation with Christopher. In fact, if you remember, I have only met him but the once, on the infamous occasion that he called upon us at Baker Street, claiming to have lost his wallet and being without the train fare to enable him to get back to his student digs in Oxford.”
“Yes, of course,” I replied, remembering how embarrassing the incident had been. “Not the first time his excessive gambling has got him into trouble. But how, then, do you know about his recent news and my thoughts on the matter? Please tell me this isn’t some elaborate parlour trick on your part.”
Holmes laughed heartily. “From a lesser man, I might have taken that as an insult, Watson. There is no trickery I can assure you. As you said, the wedding invitation arrived four days ago. It was the only letter addressed to you from the pile that Mrs Hudson brought up to me that day. I cast a glance at the envelope and then placed it in your post rack.”
“I trust you didn’t return to the letter and open it without my knowledge?”
“Of course not—the envelope told me all that I needed to know. The letter was postmarked ‘Oxford’ and the address was written in that small, spidery hand which I have come to recognise as that of your nephew. While you may not see or speak to him often, I have observed that Christopher’s letters have been arriving more frequently of late, no doubt linked to his gambling debts, but expressed to you in his polite requests for small amounts of money to support his continuing medical studies at the university. That this particular letter was not one of those regular communiqués was apparent from the oddly-sized envelope, which enclosed a card of some sort. Coupled with the clearly displayed ‘RSVP’ on the back, it was not hard to discern that this was a wedding invitation. And on reading through the announcements in The Times that same day, I couldn’t fail to see the notice regarding the forthcoming marriage of ‘Mr Christopher Henry Watson of Trinity College, Oxford, to Mrs Virginia Belvedere Aston-Cowper of Bexley Heath, Kent’.”
“Very neat, Holmes, but how did you know that I had failed to greet the news with any great relish? It is true, that I have tried to support my nephew through all of the troubles he has encountered since the death of my alcoholic brother. I have a great affection for the boy, especially since he has chosen to devote himself to a course of study which mirrors my own. But this latest caper is indeed troubling. And yet, I cannot recollect saying anything to you about the matter.”
“Precisely so, and the very fact which prompted me to take note. It is not every day that one receives an invitation to a family wedding and yet you chose not to mention it. Of late, you have been less garrulous than normal and given to periods of intense introspection. The invitation also required a prompt response—something you would attend to ordinarily by return of post. Thus far, you have seen fit to leave the invitation inside the envelope, which this morning still sat within the letter rack. Lethargy is not a characteristic you are prone to, Watson, so I can only conclude that you have chosen to delay your response, being troubled once again by the imprudence of your nephew.”
His pinpoint accuracy in targeting such a raw nerve left me deflated. “I was unaware that my innermost thoughts were so easily exposed,” said I. “What do you make of the situation?”
He lent across to the low coffee table in front of us and stubbed out what remained of his cigar. “As you know, I am not given to any moral panics or ethical dilemmas when it comes to affairs of the heart. I do not profess to know what drives a man to declare his undying love for another and be content to live out his existence in the shadow of a better half. In this case, I take it that your main concern is the fact that Mrs Aston-Cowper is both a widow and a woman some years older than Christopher?”
“Eighteen years older, to be precise!” My anger had surfaced finally and I could no longer hide my frustrations of late: “Christopher is a rash, happy-go-lucky, sort of fellow. But his heart has always been in the right place. A more devoted, loving individual it would be hard to find—exactly as my brother had been, before he descended into poverty and took to the bottle. What I fear, is that his mounting debts and overriding material desires are clouding his judgement. Mrs Aston-Cowper is a wealthy woman, who is no doubt flattered by the attentions of a younger man. As such, they both have something to gain from the union. And yet, I fear it will be a marriage of simple convenience that one or both parties will live to regret.”
“Watson, you have the upper hand on me. I feel disinclined to venture any opinion on Christopher’s romantic inclinations and cannot claim to know his wider motivations. But what of the lady herself—what more do you know of her?”
“Alas, very little. I made some discreet enquiries at one of my dining clubs. A steward there knows of her, and furnished me with a few particulars. She is the widow of Sir Ashley Aston-Cowper, the eminent anatomist, famed for carrying out some pioneering arterial surgery on one of the Queen’s continental cousins. When he passed away in February of last year, he left his wife a fashionable and expensive home in Bexley and a tidy annual income to match. Inexplicably, she has, since that time, ceased to use the honorific title of ‘Lady Aston-Cowper’.”
“Yes, indeed. But there is something more. I cannot recollect all of the details, but seem to remember that she was embroiled in some sort of scandal involving the younger son of the Duke of Buckland.”
“Well, that is news to me!” I spluttered. “And what was the nature of this impropriety?”
“Given the delicacy of the situation, Watson, I am loath to tell you anything that is not completely accurate. I suggest we retrace our steps back to Baker Street, where I can consult my files and tell you all of the pertinent facts surrounding the Cheddington Park Scandal.
The two-mile walk back to Baker Street lifted my mood considerably and I felt reassured that I had, at last, confided in Holmes. But at the back of my mind, I was now anxious that the matters he had referred to might exacerbate my woes about the marriage.
On entering 221B, we were greeted immediately by an agitated Mrs Hudson. “I’m so sorry, Mr Holmes, but the lady insisted on waiting for your return. I have just taken her a cup of tea, but she seems very emotional and has already sat upstairs for the best part of an hour.”
“Understood, Mrs Hudson, then we will delay her no longer,” Holmes replied, removing his overcoat and hat and nodding for me to do the same. “But do please tell us—who is our resolute, yet excitable guest?”
Mrs Hudson’s reply came as a surprise to us both. “Her calling card says ‘Aston-Cowper’ . . . ‘Mrs Virginia Belvedere Aston-Cowper’.”
We climbed the seventeen steps to the upstairs room and entered the study. Mrs Aston-Cowper stood promptly to greet us, dropping her small handbag on to the chair she had been sitting in. It was clear that she had been crying and she still held within her delicate, gloved left hand a small handkerchief which I gathered she had been using to dry her tears.
The lady appeared to be considerably younger than I had expected. While I knew her to be just over forty years of age, I could not in all honesty say that she looked a day over thirty. She was slender in build and around five feet, ten inches tall. Beneath her heavy black shawl, she wore a long, exquisitely tailored dress of green silk, which accentuated her slim figure. Her bright, delicate face was framed with a mass of dark curls, on which sat a velvet bonnet festooned with a colourful assembly of flowers. As I approached her, I was transfixed by her intense blue eyes.
Holmes greeted her warmly. “Mrs Aston-Cowper! I am so sorry to have kept you waiting.” She raised her right hand towards him and he shook it gently. “I am Sherlock Holmes, as you may have guessed, and this is my colleague, Dr John Watson, the man you have really come to see. Please, be seated.”
Her face took on a look of gentle surprise and she smiled pleasantly as I too shook the hand that was extended towards me. She then sat back down and proceeded to remove her shawl, black gloves and the green velvet bonnet, revealing the full extent of her brunette locks. “I suppose I should have guessed that a celebrated consulting detective would have little trouble in discerning the primary reason for my visit,” she said, in a confident tone.
We both took seats facing her and I could not resist the opportunity to make an immediate observation: “Mrs Aston-Cowper, no doubt you wish to talk to me about your forthcoming marriage to my nephew Christopher? I imagine that he asked you to come here, knowing that if he had come himself, I would have expressed my displeasure at his hasty matrimonial plans. You may view me as overly-protective and unreasonably paternalistic towards him, but I think I should point out that Christopher is, in many respects, the closest thing I have to a son of my own. I have no reason to question your affections for him, but fear that he may be marrying you for his own selfish reasons.”
Her response was both earnest and considered. “Dr Watson, I thank you for your honesty and directness, as I much prefer a man who says what is on his mind. Christopher knows nothing of my visit today. He holds you in high regard and has told me much about your loyalty and steadfast support for him and his studies. I have taken on the task of arranging all of the preparations for the wedding in order that Christopher may concentrate on the final batch of his university examinations. Of all the invitations I had sent out, yours was the only one which had not prompted any sort of reply. I am told that you are a proactive man, with a military disposition to get things done, so could envisage only two reasons for this. Either, you had not received the letter, or, having taken delivery of it, you had decided that you did not wish to attend the ceremony. My visit today was designed, in part, to clarify if the latter was the case and I recognise now that it was. I know how hurt Christopher will be if you are absent on the day, so I implore you to reconsider, for both our sakes.”
I could not fail to be moved by her appeal and apologised for having not replied to the invitation. At that same time, I resisted the temptation to glance at Holmes, and wondered what he must be making of all this. I then found myself agreeing to attend the wedding, which elicited a most radiant smile from our guest.
“I am so happy to hear you say that, sir! And please, rest assured, I have the measure of Christopher and his wayward habits. Since we first met two months ago at a charitable event in Oxford, we have been the closest of kindred spirits and have both determined that there should be no secrets between us. I have been candid in telling him about my first marriage to Sir Ashley Aston-Cowper and some of the incidents in my life of which I am less than proud. He, likewise, has been open in sharing with me his addiction to gambling and his dishonesty in approaching many of his family and friends for funds to support his compulsion . . .”
Holmes shuffled in his chair and stifled a chortle with the pretence of a cough.
“. . . I am convinced now that he has put all of that behind him and is genuinely determined to complete his studies and take up a position he has been offered at Guy’s Hospital.”
I could but marvel at the turnaround in my nephew’s fortunes if what I had heard was true. Having now met his intended and listened to her passionate defence of him, I hoped that this was indeed the case. I turned to the question of his career prospects—“And you say he has been approached by Guy’s?”
“Yes, well, approached may not be an accurate interpretation. I will be honest in sharing with you that it was I that secured the offer. My late husband was very well regarded in his surgical role at Guy’s and I have maintained close friendships with some of his former colleagues. It was not difficult to put in a good word for Christopher, knowing that he has both the skills and determination to succeed in his career.”
This time it was Holmes who spoke. “It seems you have taken an extraordinary risk in placing your faith and love in a young man you have known for such a short time and who has yet to establish himself in society. You are a woman with both status and wealth. Are you not concerned that others may judge your betrothal to be reckless?”
“I have ceased to worry about what others may think. Call it an affectation of age, but I have reached a point in life where I choose to do those things which feel right, rather than those which are deemed by others to be the most rational or sensible course. Knowing something of your professional approach, Mr Holmes, I imagine that may be anathema to you.”
My admiration for this woman was growing steadily and I could understand now why my nephew had become so infatuated with her. Undoubtedly, she had the measure of most of the men she encountered.
Holmes ignored her passing remark and changed tack, as only he could. “Mrs Aston-Cowper, it seems you have resolved the matter of Watson’s attendance at your wedding. Perhaps now you will turn to the other pressing issue which has brought you here today. If I am not mistaken, you are seeking my help on the delicate matter of the Cheddington Park Scandal.
The lady was quite taken aback. She looked to me fleetingly, possibly seeking some sort of explanation or reassurance, but then turned her gaze back to Holmes, her penetrating blue eyes fixed on his. “That is most remarkable. How could you possibly know that?”
“Aligning a few facts and observations into a feasible hypothesis is the very essence of my craft—the science of deduction. Your earlier comments suggested that beyond the immediate matter of the wedding, you had a further, secondary reason for travelling across to Baker Street. This was clearly an issue of some importance, for you were prepared to wait over an hour for our return. And yet, you had not thought to send a telegram or to alert us in any other way to your impending visit. That this is also a very personal matter is evident from your emotional state. Putting both facts together suggests to me that something has happened very recently which has made this a more immediate concern, which you feel unable to deal with on your own. Perhaps there was also a degree of opportunism in coming here, knowing that your visit to Dr Watson might also provide you with access to his colleague, the detective. I am also aware that last year you were embroiled in some delicate matters at your Cheddington Park home, which may now have ramifications for the planned wedding. All in all, it seemed most likely that that would be the topic on which you would wish to consult me.”
She continued to look at him in astonishment. “I declare that I am rarely shocked by much these days, Mr Holmes, but that has certainly caught me by surprise. I hope you will be able to assist me, but fear that I may be clutching at straws, as this is a most delicate and intractable problem. I would, of course, be pleased to reward you handsomely for any help you can provide . . .”
Holmes looked troubled by the reference to money and was quick to interject. “My dear lady, you need not concern yourself with the latter. I ask only that you acquaint me with the relevant facts of the case, so I may determine if there is any way that I can assist. Without the data, I can do nothing.”
Mrs Aston-Cowper appeared to take this as a positive signal and offered up another of her beguiling smiles. “I will, then, begin at the very start and tell you all that I can. I am not sure how much will be relevant, but will let you decide the matters of substance. You will then understand why it is such a personal and immediate concern.”
I took the opportunity to ask a quick question: “You have indicated that this is a very personal matter. Would you prefer it, if I were to leave at this point?”
“Certainly not, Doctor. I know that you work in close collaboration with Mr Holmes and can be trusted to be discreet. You have thus far been very open and honest with me. It is fitting that I should extend you the same courtesy.”
I smiled and nodded. Holmes brought his fingertips together and raised them to his chin. He then planted his elbows on the arms of his chair and closed his eyes. Mrs Aston-Cowper then began her narrative.
“My story begins in the summer of 1863, when I was just nineteen years old. My parents, Henry and Vivienne Melrose, felt strongly that all four of their female progeny should experience as much of life as was possible before marrying well and settling down to a quiet life of domesticity. Central to this enlightened ethos was the belief that travel would broaden our horizons and enrich our conversation. I had no great desire to travel, but faced with the gentle encouragement of my mother and the generous financial backing of my father, found myself that year in the colourful city of Paris. All of the arrangements had been made for me to stay for a period of six weeks, to see all that the metropolis had to offer and to make good use of the conversational French I had been learning for about a year. Travelling with me was Mrs Rose Sutherland, a seventy-year-old chaperone chosen by my mother, who had earlier accompanied my three older siblings to their favoured destinations in other parts of Europe.
“From the outset, the carefully formulated plans of my sojourn began to unravel, when dear Mrs Sutherland contracted a debilitating stomach complaint on the sea crossing to France and then spent the first week of the trip confined to her bed within the Hôtel de Crillon. I was content to amuse myself in and around the hotel while she recuperated, each day gaining the confidence to walk a little further from my base, seeking out whatever cultural diversions I could find. Of course, I told Mrs Sutherland nothing of these little excursions.
“On my third day, I visited the impressive gothic cathedral of Notre-Dame, and while walking close to the River Seine chanced upon a group of English artists painting an exterior view of the building. The party had travelled across to France together—a mixed group of male and female painters of all ages who seemed to revel in the relaxed bohemian atmosphere that Paris afforded them. My eye was drawn, in particular, to a watercolour by one of the older men, Gerald Stanhope, who told me that he was a student of the Royal Academy. Imagining that the picture would make a perfect gift for my parents, I asked him politely if it was for sale. He smiled and said that while he could not possibly take any money from me, he would be prepared to let me have the painting if I agreed to sit for him the next day.
“You will no doubt think me naïve, gentlemen, when I say that the proposition—put to me as it was on that fine, sunny day, along a beautiful stretch of river and among a group of talented artists—did not at the time strike me as odd or offensive. I agreed to meet up with the very charming Stanhope the next day, in the Pigalle garret he had rented for the duration of his stay. The following afternoon, I found my way to the garret and climbed the stairs to what was a small, but luxurious attic complex with access to a rooftop terrace overlooking the city’s fine skyline. Stanhope had been true to his word and already had the watercolour wrapped for me to take away. That left the small matter of the sitting.
“Looking around the garret, I could see that he had been extremely industrious in his work; the walls, floor, tables and sofas of the apartment were covered in sketches, watercolours and canvases of all sizes. I could also see various bits of equipment which Stanhope informed me he had acquired for his developing interest in amateur photography. But the two small canvasses which really caught my attention were those hanging in pride of place on the wall of the main room. Both were of young women no older than myself, and each had been captured reclining and naked. I felt myself flush in embarrassment as I realised that this was what the artist now had in mind for me. With the bargain struck, I was immature enough to believe that I had no alternative but to go through with the sitting.
“I should say at this stage, that Stanhope acted without any hint of impropriety, busying himself with the easel and canvas and selecting his oil paints, as I began to remove my clothes. I thought only of the classical tradition of creative muses and the many women before me who had bared themselves in the name of art. It all felt very wrong, but I convinced myself mentally that it would all soon be over and no lasting harm would result. The artist then directed me to recline on the chaise longue he had prepared and which I recognised from the two paintings on the wall.
“Little by way of conversation passed between us, as he seemed to prefer to work without interruption and with an intensity of concentration that I had rarely seen in a fellow human being. The one concession I did extract from him was that in naming the finished painting, he was not to make any specific reference to the identity of the artist’s model. This he agreed to happily, pointing out that he had already done that with his two earlier models. In any case, throughout the short time that I had known him, I had only ever referred to myself as ‘Virginia’.
“Time passed very slowly in that cramped garret and within a couple of hours I announced that I would have to get dressed and make my way back to the hotel, as my elderly chaperone would, without doubt, be wondering where I was. As ever, Stanhope was friendly and obliging, but indicated that he was far from finished and would have to carry on the following day, expecting clearly that I would make a return visit. Realising this to be the case, my emotions got the better of me and the tears welled up within my eyes. He could see my obvious distress and suggested an alternative, which in the awkwardness of the moment seemed to be preferable. He would set up his camera and take a single photograph of me, from which he could then work at his leisure without any further imposition on me.
“That then was that. When I arrived back at the hotel, I found that Mrs Sutherland had barely missed me. I vowed never to tell a soul about the incident and believed that no one could possibly know what I had done. I realised, of course, that in my haste to get away from that claustrophobic apartment, I had not even paused to look at how Stanhope had portrayed me. Had I done so, I may not have been so confident that this was the end of the matter.
“There is little more to say about the Parisian trip beyond that. Mrs Sutherland failed to return to full health after that first week and we concluded that our best course of action would be to return home early. Over time, I put the whole affair out of my mind and it would only re-enter my thoughts when I glanced occasionally at the Notre-Dame watercolour that graced the wall of my parents’ conservatory.
“When I was twenty-five, I met and fell in love with Sir Ashley Aston-Cowper, a distinguished medical man, some years older than me. We were not to be blessed with children and despite his status as a surgeon he suffered with persistent heart problems, exacerbated by his extravagant lifestyle and love of fine wine and rich food. Ours was a happy marriage for the most part, although we had distinctly different circles of friends with whom we spent time, when not together. My preference was to visit my parents and sisters. Sir Ashley liked to mix with the more elite and wealthy members of his various clubs, societies and medical institutions. Occasionally, he would invite some of these to stay for the weekend in the exterior lodge close to the entrance of our Cheddington Park home. It was during this time that I first became acquainted with Roger Morton, the youngest son of the Duke of Buckland.
“From the outset, I disliked the man intensely. He was close to my own age, and younger than most of the group that my husband entertained on a regular basis. In short, he was brash, uncouth and self-obsessed. But what I particularly detested, were his barely concealed attempts to flirt with me in the presence of my husband. Sir Ashley seemed not to notice and clearly saw something in the man that eluded me. Morton lived off the not insignificant allowance that he received from his father, but maintained that he was an art dealer. And it was in this capacity, that he was to bring the past back to haunt me.
“Sir Ashley had invited a dozen guests over one weekend in February last year. Morton had arrived ahead of the others and seemed particularly pleased with himself, saying—out of earshot of my husband—that he had a surprise for me. He explained that the previous week he had purchased a job lot of paintings and ephemera from a major dealer in Brussels. This had included a number of works by British artists, including ‘Gerald Stanhope’. He paused, allowing the name to hang in the air and watching for my reaction. I froze instantly, in the dawning realisation of what he had just said, and felt a cold chill descend through my body. ‘So, it is you in the painting—I guessed as much!’ he whispered with a smirk, before following one of our servants who was carrying Morton’s bags and cases in through the door of the lodge.
“I recognised that Morton had the upper hand and the future of my marriage, if not my standing in society generally, would indeed be precarious if he were to reveal the painting to anyone. That Friday evening he seemed content to let the matter rest, casting me lascivious looks every time our eyes met. And it was only before lunchtime the following day that his intentions became clear. Catching me in the grounds of the house as I strolled through my favourite rose garden, Morton took me by the arm and announced that he wanted me as his mistress. He then added that if I were to refuse, he would reveal the painting to our guests that very evening. He left me to think it over.
“In that instant, I determined that I would not be held to ransom by the scoundrel and realised one immediate fact. Namely, that in threatening me, he had clearly brought the canvas with him. If I could find a way to get to the picture and destroy it, my future might yet be saved. As luck would have it, Sir Ashley had provided me with a perfect opportunity to put my plan into action. Over lunch, he announced that all of the guests were invited to take part in a bridge tournament in the main house, a proposal that all agreed to readily.
“That afternoon, feigning a headache, I left our guests to their card playing and headed for the kitchen, where I took from one of the cutlery drawers a small, sharpened fruit knife, which I hoped would be sufficient to cut the canvas from its frame. I then took a side door from the house, out of sight of the servants, and walked the short distance down the drive to the lodge. With all of the guests being entertained at the main house, I knew that the lodge would be deserted.
“When I entered Morton’s room, I could see no obvious place in which he could have hidden the painting. All of the bags and cases he had brought with him were empty, their original contents having been placed in the drawers and wardrobe of the bedroom. That left only the small loft space above the bed. I retrieved a set of wooden steps from an adjoining room and climbed until I was able to push open the loft door and look inside. To my frustration, I could see nothing in the darkness and had to come back down the ladder to find a hurricane lantern in a store cupboard, which I lit to take back up with me. My second attempt met with success as I could now see, some five feet from my grasp, a wrapped package which I guessed to be the canvas. But as I went to climb further up the ladder and into the loft, I felt a rough tug on my left ankle and heard Morton shout loudly for me to come down. Startled, I lost control of the lantern and it fell heavily, the glass globe breaking and igniting the paraffin which spilled out from the lamp.
“Morton dragged me bodily from the ladder and pushed me aside before climbing on the steps and trying to ascend into the loft. I seized the opportunity and ran from the room as he was driven back by the flames now engulfing the tinder dry rafters of the roof space. When I managed to get back to the safety of the house, I raised the alarm and soon both servants and guests were running to and from the lodge with buckets of water in a futile attempt to extinguish the inferno.
“Sir Ashley knew that at the time of the fire only Morton and I had been at the lodge. Morton had dropped out of the card game early on, saying that he needed to retrieve something from the lodge. Having raced back to the house to raise the alarm, it was obvious that I had not been in my room suffering with a headache. That evening, with the lodge now completely devastated by the fire, my husband called both Morton and I to his study and asked for an explanation. My initial fear was that our guest would now take his revenge by telling Sir Ashley all about the painting, which had also been destroyed. However, he went one step further in his vengeance, claiming that we had been having a secret affair for months and I had talked about the prospect of marriage once Sir Ashley had succumbed to the inevitable heart disease with which he was afflicted.
“I need hardly tell you, Mr Holmes, that what Morton did that evening was far worse than revealing the existence of a scandalous painting. When Sir Ashley looked at me for some challenge or corroboration of the story, I fell mute—unable to defend myself or tell him what had really gone on. Morton was told in no uncertain terms to leave Cheddington Park immediately and to never show his face in front of Sir Ashley again. I was instructed that while we would give outsiders and household staff the impression that our marriage was solid we would, from that moment on, cease to be husband and wife. In the event, there was no need for any such pretence. The shock of the alleged affair was more than my husband’s heart could take and during the night he suffered a fatal attack.
“Of course, with a house full of well-connected guests whose weekend had been cut short by the drama of what had gone on, it did not take long for the rumours to start circulating. A mysterious fire, the unexpected death of a Knight and talk that his Lady wife had been having an affair were bound to have a resonance. Some of Sir Ashley’s friends and colleagues began to shun me, but on the whole most were supportive in my hour of need. Most significantly, Roger Morton seemed to have disappeared and I was told later by one of our circle that he had gone to New York to work for an auction house.
“The fact that the provisions of Sir Ashley’s will remained unchanged and I was left both Cheddington Park and an annual income helped to persuade some doubters that there had been no obvious rift between the two of us. But I felt distinctly uncomfortable about the bequest and decided to cease using the title ‘Lady Aston-Cowper’. It was a small gesture, but it was my way of showing that I did not want to dishonour the memory of my dear husband.
“After some months, my life began to return to some semblance of normality, helped by the unerring support of my family. And, most recently, I met Christopher, who has proved to be the most loyal and compassionate man I have ever known. As we became closer, I took the decision to share with him the full story of what the newspapers had called the Cheddington Park Scandal.”
Our guest paused briefly, and Holmes—who had to that point given every impression of being fast asleep—opened his eyes quizzically, and prompted our guest: “Please, Mrs Aston-Cowper, I think you were about to bring us up to date and reveal the telegram you received this morning from Roger Morton threatening to make public the photograph taken of you by Gerald Stanhope.”
The lady swallowed heavily. “Yes, indeed, Mr Holmes, but I am again in awe of your deductive capabilities. I made no mention of the telegram . . .”
“No. But you did not challenge me when I put it to you earlier that something had happened very recently. And when we entered the room it was clear that you had been re-reading something which had once again brought you to tears. For reasons of vanity, you were quick to dispense with the pince-nez which you slid swiftly into your chatelaine bag. The telegram did not fare so well—it still sits beside you, now looking rather crumpled, but clearly displaying today’s date. As for the photograph, it struck me from your account that if Morton had managed to purchase Stanhope’s original oil painting—and had been so sure that you were the model in it—it was also extremely likely that he had acquired the accompanying photograph. In my experience, blackmailers relish a solid back-up plan.”
“Simply astonishing!” she uttered, a broad smile now covering her face. “So, vanity was my undoing, yet again. And you are quite correct about the content of the telegram. I had not heard one word from Roger Morton since the night of the fire and believed that he had no further hold on me with the destruction of the canvas. The telegram came as a complete shock.”
“It would be helpful to see the precise wording of the message,” said Holmes.
She rose from her chair and passed the telegram to my colleague. He looked it over for some minutes and then read aloud: ‘More to come on Cheddington scandal . . . a photograph . . . will prevent marriage = M.’ Very interesting—it seems that Mr Morton is determined to scupper your wedding plans, Mrs Aston-Cowper, and is prepared to go to great lengths to do so. That recent announcement in The Times has clearly been picked up by our man in America who now plans to travel back to England to sow the seeds of your undoing.”
I then interposed. “Why do you say that, Holmes?”
“Well, he has no way of knowing that Mrs Aston-Cowper has already told your nephew about the canvas and photograph so is labouring under the delusion that his disclosure of the latter would prevent the wedding. That said, if the photograph were to fall into the wrong hands, it could still be tremendously damaging to both their reputations. And yet, Morton clings to some hope that he can negotiate a deal. If that were not the case, he would already have exposed the photograph to the American press, who would no doubt relish a story about the fall from grace of a British Lady. The telegram was sent from New York yesterday evening by the Western Union Telegraph Company. It seems to me that Morton despatched it before boarding a passenger liner for the transatlantic passage to Liverpool.”
With that, he leapt from his seat and began to rummage through a pile of loose folders in a corner of the room. Mrs Aston-Cowper looked on with some consternation. When he returned to his seat a minute or two later, Holmes was waving a bright-coloured pamphlet.
“Here it is—a brochure for the British and North American Royal Mail Steam-Packet Company. The passenger liner Scotia was due to set off yesterday for the eastbound crossing. This is the oceangoing steamer that won the Blue Riband for the westbound passage three years ago. The voyage is estimated to take between ten and fourteen days, which should mean that Roger Morton will be docking at Liverpool in early September.”
Mrs Aston-Cowper continued to look confused. “And what happens then?”
“Why, it should be a simple matter of greeting him at the port and persuading him to hand over the photograph,” Holmes retorted. “That is a task you can leave to the inestimable talents of Dr Watson here.”
I was flattered by Holmes faith in me, but not a little disturbed at the thought that the social standing of both my nephew and his bride to be might depend on my success in completing the mission. Mrs Aston-Cowper seemed delighted by the plan, rising from her chair to come and shake me warmly by the hand, before offering some words of encouragement.
“Doctor, I will forever be in your debt if you can manage to resolve this issue. It is more than I could have hoped for in coming here today, when my principal objective was to persuade you to attend a wedding! And I will be eternally grateful for the professional assistance you have offered, Mr Holmes. You have a rare set of talents. I must now take my leave. And while I am loath to keep anything from Christopher—as I hinted at earlier—I do believe it would be better for all concerned, if nothing more was said about our meeting today.”
“That would be best for us all,” agreed Holmes, with a mischievous smile. “Without any disrespect to you, Mrs Aston-Cowper, I would not wish it to be known by my colleagues at Scotland Yard that I am now providing guidance on marital matters.”
Our client left us in good humour and I looked forward to meeting her again at the wedding that October. For the next week or so, I sought regular updates from the steamship company on the likely progress of the Scotia and made plans to travel up to the Port of Liverpool to greet the arrival of the passenger liner. When it berthed at the Albert Dock on Monday, 3rd September, I was more than prepared for the encounter with Roger Morton.
He emerged from the dock office in the company of a porter who was pulling a hand trolley on which sat a large cabin trunk. Morton was well over six-feet tall and solidly built. He was dressed in a knee-length tweed frock coat, a white shirt and wide dark-red necktie. On his head sat a tall top hat. He looked every part the English aristocrat.
As I stepped forward, he pre-empted my challenge. “Dr Watson, I take it? I understand that you are here to collect this from me,” said he, thrusting a large envelope into my hand. There was no warmth in his tone and his dark brown eyes fixed on mine with a degree of menace. Not to be intimidated, I continued to hold his stare and then turned my attention to the envelope. As I opened it, I could see that it contained the salacious image of the young Virginia Melrose.
“Our business is concluded then, Mr Morton,” I said, turning briskly and walking away to be bemused looks of the porter.
It was clear that Morton felt he had to have the last word. “For what it’s worth, you can tell her that she was never a great beauty!” His words echoed around the dock office. I carried on walking.
When I arrived back at Baker Street a couple of days later, Holmes was waiting for me with a stiff glass of brandy. “Warm yourself up with this, Watson, it is unseasonably cold today.”
I could not resist chiding him for the unnecessary display. “Holmes, I have known you too long to be fooled by any of this. You knew full well that Morton could be persuaded to hand over the letter. When I met him at the docks he already knew who I was. So, how did you do it?”
Holmes smirked, knowing that I was more relieved than upset by his intervention. “My dear fellow, I could not send you into battle without providing you with reinforcements. A quick visit to my brother Mycroft was all that was required. Having heard the story, he travelled up to Liverpool ahead of you and arranged to be taken out by tug to the Scotia as the liner began its entry to the port. When he tracked Morton down on board the ship, he made it clear that if the rogue did not hand the photograph to you at the dockside, both he and his father, the Duke of Buckland, would be blackballed in every gentleman’s club in London. Furthermore, the Duke’s loans on the current refurbishment of his Highland estates would be called in, rendering the family bankrupt. I suspect that was sufficient to seal the matter.”
I was warmed by the subterfuge. “Then that is an end to the matter, Holmes. A job well done—I have destroyed the photograph, Mrs Aston-Cowper can rest easy, and we can all enjoy the wedding. Let’s drink to that!”