THE MYSTERY OF THE MISPLACED MOTHER

1

I entered the house after a tiring day with a number of my patients, to find Mrs. Hudson in the hall. She greeted me with the news that Holmes had a new client who had just gone up to our rooms, and I repressed a groan.

I was weary, grimy from London’s eternal smuts, and in grave need of both a bath and my dinner. I did not wish to stand about being polite, I thought, and then my better self reproved me. I had a pleasant home and a good friend who shared it, I had work that fulfilled me, and I was not in want. Why should I wish to turn away someone who was probably in a worse case?

I gathered myself, plodded up the stairs, entered our rooms quietly and stood taking in Holmes’s client where she sat in one of our commodious armchairs.

She was an interesting woman. Much taller than most of her gender, with a fresh clear skin, vivid blue eyes, hair that was not quite pale enough to be called blond, and a full, buxom figure. She was dressed in clothing of good quality, but of a conservative style. Her hair was held back in a single long plait which fell halfway down her back, and the ribbon which tied it was of silk. There was a gentle diffidence about her, and I thought her a woman used to being overlooked, despite her height.

Holmes always says that I see but do not observe. I endeavored this time to observe. I decided that the lady was of the middle-classes, that her family was moderately well-to-do, she was unmarried, and that whatever problem had brought her to our door, it had not so discomposed her that she had failed to dress well, tidy herself, and behave as any gentlewoman should.

She was half turned away from me and had not noticed my quiet entrance. Holmes, who misses nothing, waved me unobtrusively to a seat. The lady turned at the movement, and she started at the sight of a stranger behind her and gasped.

“I apologize, sir. I had not heard you enter, and I fail in courtesy.”

“You have some problem that takes all your attention,” I said kindly. “Please continue. I shall sit here quietly, do not regard me.”

She hesitated.

Holmes added, “You need have no fear, Miss Bewden. Dr. Watson is a colleague and is discretion itself. Moreover, should we at any stage require the aid of a doctor, he stands ready and able.

“Let me formally introduce you. Miss Bewden, this is my friend and esteemed colleague, Dr. Watson. Watson, this is Miss Dorothy Bewden.”

I saw that this reassured her and she turned to me. “Forgive me, Doctor, but the truth is that I have few facts to bring you both. All I know is that something is going on, that I am afraid, and I know not where to turn. My mother is gone missing, my sister says I am all about in my wits, and those who know us appear to take her side. I fear to call upon the police since my sister will do as she always does and make me appear a fool. I knew not which way to turn, and then I recalled the name of Mr. Holmes and determined to seek his advice.”

I sat down as Holmes addressed me.

“Miss Bewden says that her mother is gone from their home. She seems to have packed a case and mentioned to two friends, as well as Miss Bewden’s elder sister, that she planned a holiday, and she was seen to depart in a taxi. However, she did not tell Miss Bewden of this holiday. She departed while my client was absent, taking all of her extensive jewelry collection, and she has now been gone for more than seven weeks. Miss Bewden knows not where her mother is, nor how much longer her holiday will last, and her most recent discovery has emboldened her to seek my assistance.”

I seized on that final comment. “Your most recent discovery?” I queried, looking at the lady.

“My mother appears to have given my sister the right to withdraw money from her bank account. That is, my mother’s account. I do not believe she would have done so, but I have no proof. I am afraid to go to the manager and ask openly of it, since he, like many others, sees my sister as the epitome of rectitude and good sense. He would at once tell her of my inquiries and that would not sit well with her. And anything that my sister does not approve is not suffered in silence.”

Holmes spoke quietly. “If need be I can speak to the manager. But tell us more of your life; I perceive that you are in comfortable circumstances, that you have some form of regular employment, and that you live outside the greater part of the city.”

Miss Bewden smiled, a look that transformed her face from merely pleasant to genuinely attractive. It showed a spirit not yet completely downtrodden, and underlying that, an intelligence I had not heretofore seen. I found that intriguing and leaned forward, attentive to her reply.

She took a deep breath and began. “My father was a businessman. I shall not go into great detail, suffice it to say that he was shrewd and when, in his late twenties, he came into a property and an unexpected sum of money from an uncle, he invested that money wisely. Being able to support a wife, since he now had a property and money, he married. At that time he was some thirty years of age and his chosen wife, my mother, was also that age and an old playmate from his youth. My sister, Heather, was born two years after their marriage and I was born four years later. I am now twenty-six, and my sister turned thirty last month.” A flash of wry amusement showed in her eyes. “Something she does not like to hear referred to, and with those who do not know her well, she continues to claim she is twenty-nine.”

“What of your home?” I asked.

“My father was fortunate. When his uncle died, he owned a pleasant home in Bartlett, which, together with all else, was left to my father. The estate, known as Onley,” (She pronounced that as ‘Onlay,’ I noticed.) “is about a mile from both Watling Street and the railway line, affording us swift and easy transport where we may wish. It is a property of about an acre and a half, comprising a house with five bedrooms, a two-bedroom cottage, a coach-house, and a number of outbuildings, surrounded by well-laid-out lawns, gardens, and trees. We have a kitchen garden with berry bushes and fruit trees. There is also a pig sty.”

I saw Holmes taking this in and even as he spoke something occurred to me.

“You have staff,” he said. “How many, and what are their duties?”

“That is where the cottage comes in …” She faltered and recovered her composure. “My father originally offered it to a couple who had worked for his uncle. They remained another twelve years and I remember them a little. But the man died and his wife wished to live with her daughter, so father found another couple. Mrs. Chisholm became the housekeeper, and her husband did the outside work. They had the cottage free, and a small salary, with the right to surplus fruit and vegetables, some of which they sold. They are good people and very happy at Onley.”

Her voice wavered and Holmes nodded.

“Something about them distresses you?”

“Yes.” Her gaze met ours. “They have worked for us twenty years, and three weeks ago, a month after my mother departed, my sister gave them notice. I demanded to know the reason and she said that they were getting past their work. I said I had seen no sign of it, and that I would not permit them to lose their home after twenty years. Not without better reason.” Her fair skin flushed with a mix of anger and embarrassment.

“Heather said that she had Mother’s agreement to run our home as she saw fit. That if she wished to dismiss the Chisholms she was able to do so, that she had a letter from Mother assigning her permission to do anything she thought right.

“I stood up to her. I said that it should not be so. That if I must, I would apply to the court for my mother to be found and brought home and asked if this was indeed her wish. I made it clear that no argument would sway me, and Heather agreed—after much talking—that she would withdraw the Chisholms’ notice.”

Her voice dropped and her face paled as she continued. “That night as I walked home from choir practice, I was assaulted. Fortunately, one of the men from the choir saw. There was a struggle from which my
assailant managed to fight free and escape.”

I recalled my thought then. “You say that Mrs. Chisholm worked as housekeeper. On what terms was she with your mother?”

“Excellent terms,” Miss Dorothy stated promptly, looking at me. “That is why I do not believe that she would ever dismiss the Chisholms in such a cavalier fashion. Mother is … Well, the truth is that father was the strong one. Mother is a good, kind woman, but my sister overrides her in a number of decisions, and Mother too often defers to her.”

“I see,” Holmes said. “And you? Do you allow her to rule you?”

“Most times, I admit. If I do not agree with her it creates unpleasantness and distresses my mother. Therefore, I usually say nothing and allow Heather her own way. But not in this.” Her lips set grimly. “I will not allow her to dismiss two people who have worked for us and been my mother’s and my friends for twenty years. Nor will the fuss that Heather makes at my intransigence disturb my mother, since she is not here.”

“You believe your sister is yet determined to dismiss them?” Holmes asked thoughtfully.

“I do, and she shall not.”

“Describe your sister.”

“Heather? Why, she is a little taller than I, slender, with dark hair, blue eyes like mine, and a decided manner. She has had suitors but nothing ever seems to come of it.” And to a further question she responded. “Oh, she has many friends. People listen to her when she speaks. Pets? Indeed, she says she loves animals. She has a dog, two cats, a pony, and a donkey.”

Holmes asked other questions and then, seeing that the lady was tiring, allowed her to depart, saying that he would look into her mother’s disappearance quietly, and discuss it further once he had some idea of whether there was a case to answer.

When the lady had gone, dinner was placed before us at last. After we had eaten and were sitting by table, Holmes turned to me.

“What do you think, Watson?”

“That the lady’s sister is a bully, the mother is a weakling, and there is something odd going on at their home,” I said decidedly. “I do not like it, Holmes. What woman leaves her house with one suitcase and all her jewelry, and remains absent for almost two months without anyone knowing where she is?”

“Exactly so, Watson. Yet women often act on impulse, and this is a woman with the money to do so. She answers to no one, her children are adults and do not need her guiding hand, so that if she wishes to take a holiday, who can gainsay her?”

I grunted unwilling agreement. All that was true, but I liked Miss Dorothy and I had seen siblings of that sort before: one dominant, the other obedient.

I remembered the quality of the lady’s clothing. “Holmes,” I said, “does your client have her own money?”

“I, too, asked. It seems that she does, but under certain provisions. Miss Dorothy was left a goodly sum, which is in trust. She receives the interest six-monthly, and is able, provided she remains with her mother, to live very comfortably and with a fair degree of independence. Should she marry, the interest goes with her but the capital sum may not be accessed, going upon her death to any child or children she may have, and failing that, to her sister should she yet be living. That provision applies also to her sister’s finances.”

“Did Miss Dorothy give any indication of why she has not married?”

“No, nor did I ask. It is unlikely, Watson, that she would be frank upon that question, and if I take the case others may answer it more honestly.”

I saw the sense in that and asked about the other sister.

To which Holmes replied, “Miss Heather received the same sum, and with similar provisions, but not entirely. While she receives her sister’s capital if she dies first, upon Miss Heather’s death the money—possibly the capital of both by then—goes to a distant relative. Upon my asking Miss Dorothy if she knew the provisions for her mother, she said that the Onley estate and all her mother has are hers entirely, to will to whom and where she wishes. She understands that her mother’s will leaves everything to her and her sister equally, and that on her mother’s death Miss Dorothy plans to leave Onley and take a cottage elsewhere—far away from her sister would be my belief.”

“In other words,” I said, considering that, “she seems not to expect marriage. Or perhaps she does not desire it. Should she outlive her sister, she inherits her sister’s capital without any strings as to her use of it?” Holmes nodded. “And should she outlive both her sister and mother, are there restrictions then upon her inheritances?”

“Not that she is aware of. However, her father died when she was twenty, and while the will was read to Mrs. Bewden and his daughters, it seems that it was long and involved. You know lawyers, Watson. They are paid by the word, so it pleases them to use as many and be as erudite as possible. If I take the case, it may be that I must inquire as to that as well.

“I am not at all sure I shall take the case, however. It may be a mere domestic disturbance, where the mother will return and be amazed that any were worried, the elder daughter will be shown to have taken too much authority upon herself, and all will be well.”

I stared. “Do you really believe so?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“I know, but Watson, I am in the middle of a most intriguing puzzle! My attention was drawn some weeks ago to the deaths of the Princes in the Tower, and I had begun to investigate that. You know, I am not at all sure that Richard III was responsible. I do not need to take another case for a while. I was well paid in that last one, and I intended to devote myself to this historical riddle.”

I eyed him with a touch of reproach. “Richard and the princes are dead, Holmes. They have been dead for some time. Miss Dorothy is alive and so, we must hope, is her mother, yet they may not remain so. You heard that Miss Dorothy was attacked. What if that assault was related to the case, and occurs again, this time more successfully? Will you not blame yourself if you are immersed in an event that, even if solved, will yield no villain for punishment, while a lady who came to you for aid is injured or murdered?”

My friend sighed. “I thought you would say that, Watson. So be it, then. I shall take the train to Bartlett in the morning, but I would request your company. Unless you are too busy, that is?”

I indicated that I would be happy to join him. In any case I had no appointments tomorrow that could not be put off, and I could make other arrangements with a semi-retired doctor friend for the day after, should that prove be necessary.

* * *

At ten o’clock that following morning we caught a train and embarked on a case that would take us to a number of places: some pleasant, some dismal, a few interesting, and some more dangerous than I expected. But all that was to come.

The morning which began our journey was a mixture of fine and overcast, the sun alternately appearing and disappearing, so that while the day never became quite hot, it was still warm and without a breeze, and I was glad I had brought only a light coat.

Holmes filled the train trip discussing the Princes and their uncle. “A good man, trusted, liked. He did not steal their place, Watson; he was requested to assume the throne. There was likely to be a war, and two small boys could not lead as a proven warrior could do.”

I listened. I had no great interest in the subject, but it passed the time and I wondered if the king’s body would ever be found and if so, where. And if it were to be uncovered, could something have been buried with Richard that spoke of those responsible for the Princes’ deaths? I doubted the grave would be discovered, and yet—can one ever be sure? Stranger things have been revealed in good English soil over the years.

We reached Bartlett in time for a late luncheon and sat down to bread, cheese, an apple pie, and jug of rich cream divided between us, as well as a pot of excellent tea. With the inner man satisfied I leaned forward and, speaking in a low voice, asked my friend what his plan might be now we were in the town.

“Talk, Watson. We shall talk. We are up from London for a day and considering the possibility of setting up a business here.”

I asked what kind of business and Holmes nodded.

“A fair question, since we may be asked, so let us say that we are in medical supplies. You, should the business go ahead, would be the stock-purchaser, while I provide the capital. And by the way, I am Mr. Wilson, you are Mr. Coles.”

I repeated that several times to myself. Holmes knows I am not good at deceit, and I could only hope I could carry out his instructions. In the event, since he took the lead in our inquiries, I had no great difficulty in being Mr. Coles, a would-be buyer for a new medical supplies business.

“Where do we start?” I asked softly.

“Before you arrived home, Watson, Miss Dorothy said that her father, Latimer Bewden, was a businessman, and on my asking further she said he supplied leather. I asked if he had a tannery, and she said he did not. It seems he was a middleman. He ordered leather from tanneries elsewhere, stored it briefly in his warehouse, and then delivered it when needed. In effect, he supplied storage and delivery facilities. He also provided a similar service for feathers.”

I stared. “Feathers, Holmes?”

“Ostrich feathers and other such plumes, designed for the milliners of the town. It was a sideline but, or so Miss Dorothy said, quite a profitable one. I gained the impression that he may have dealt in other items, but what they might have been was not mentioned.”

I smiled. “‘Brandy for the parson, ’baccy for the clerk.’”

“Bartlett is not a smuggling village, Watson, although it is possible he stored some spirits. I do not know. We may perhaps look into that. Now, if you are done?”

I signified that I was. At which he stood, and pausing only to pay for our lunch, he headed for the street while I followed. Once outside he turned to the left and strolled along, commenting quietly on various shops we passed before turning in at a cobbler’s, where Holmes fell into conversation while looking over the stock.

“You have some good leather here. Do you buy it directly?”

“No, sir, we’ve a business as we can order it through. They store it until I need it delivered, then it’s here, quick as winking. Gentleman as owned it died about six year gone, and those of us that used him were a bit worried, but the widow, she sold a share in it to a good man, son of an old friend of the owners, and he does a good job.”

“Who was the man who died?”

“Bewden was his name, Mr. Latimer Bewden. Ah, he started up here when his uncle died and left him his place a bit out of town. Matter of more’n thirty years ago now. ’Tis a convenient system, sirs, since before that I had to order leather, and sometimes it got here before I needed it and sometimes it didn’t. And I haven’t enough storage here in this shop, so I couldn’t send in a large order. But once Mr. Bewden set up, why I could order more at once so’s to get a discount, and that paid for him storing it. After that I never once ran out of leather when it were needed.”

Holmes asked questions, listened to the answers, and all the while the cobbler’s hammer tapped a merry accompaniment to the conversation.

I thought the old man enjoyed the company and came in with a comment now and again to keep the talk going, while studying the accessories and putting aside polish and bootlaces for myself. I could buy them as well here as in London, and it might incline the cobbler to favor us. It seemed to, since he continued to gossip and we learned a number of things, most of which would be of no value, but now and again we received something of use.

“Yes, Mrs. Bewden, a nice lady, not like that daughter of hers, thinks she rules the roost, she does. Younger one’s pleasant, always polite, but a bit downtrodden by her sister. Oh, well, that’s the way in families, there’s some as is heard and others as isn’t.”

That, I thought, confirmed my impression of Miss Dorothy. The cobbler, led by a comment from Holmes, was chattering on.

“Yes, they’re all in here now and again. Buy good footwear and make it last. Not great for fashion, no, what they all want is quality. Nice-looking items, but not up with the latest mode. Nor that shoddy type of shoe that wears out in a year, and ’s meant to be thrown out.

“When did I last see Mrs. Bewden? Why, must be three months or more now that I think of it. But then she doesn’t come in every time. Last visit were that older daughter, speaking loud as if I were deaf, and telling me how to run my business. When was that? About two weeks ago. Wanted a fancy pair o’ shoes, but didn’t want to pay a fancy price.”

He laughed, a sound like water gurgling down a street drain. “Oh, she seemed to think I should give them to her cheap, and flounced out when I wouldn’t. I can do without her kind of business. I hope the old lady comes in next time.” He paused. “But then I must get on. Now then, sir,” to me, “I can wrap those things up for you and that’ll be five and eleven-pence. Good day to you, sirs. And don’t forget where I am if’n you want more of the same.”

It was clear that he felt he’d been indiscreet and we’d get no more from him today, so I took up my parcel and we left the cobbler to his last. Once clear of the shop I spoke quietly.

“He hasn’t seen the mother for at least as long as Miss Dorothy said she was gone. He doesn’t like the elder sister, either.”

“No. She may be merely a little autocratic, however, which he naturally resented as a man with his own business and not a hired servant. I think that we shall try a few more places, Watson, if you will?”

I agreed and we visited in turn another cobbler, taciturn to the point of muteness, a milliner—a woman who could, as the saying goes, talk the hind-leg off a donkey, and made a valiant attempt to do so with us—and another milliner who eyed us with suspicion and disclaimed any knowledge of the Bewdens, the storage business, and anyone taking holidays anywhere at any time whatsoever.

Out from her shop again I regarded the window display and the blurred figure moving behind it with some amusement. “Who do you think she thought we were, Holmes?”

“I have no idea. I do wonder if all her feathers are acquired legally.”

I grinned. “You think she obtains some illegally and thinks us to be—what? Customs Inspectors of some sort? Revenuers?”

Holmes’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps. But it is gone one. I suggest something to eat and drink while we decide our next step. I have an idea about that if nothing else will serve.”

He disclosed it as we walked and I smiled. It should work. It had certainly done so before.

2

We found a small café that provided us with a secluded back corner booth and a light lunch, and while we ate we talked.

I had a point to make by now. “Holmes, this is difficult. We cannot speak too clearly as to why we are asking about Mrs. Bewden. No one seems concerned about her absence. Two people have said she is on holiday, and both say Miss Heather Bewden told them. We cannot cast doubt on that. We are in the position of men who try to fight in handcuffs and leg-irons.”

“True, but let us try another few of the Bewdens’ acquaintances. If we find out nothing then we shall do next as I suggested.”

I agreed. On our final application to a citizen of this town we were shown a path towards someone prepared to speak freely.

We had approached a Miss Tremworth, a friend of Mrs. Bewden’s. We claimed to have been directed to her by a minister in London, and upon her acceptance of that, we fell into conversation, Holmes telling her that we were considering setting up in business here and wished to know if Bartlett was a good Christian town. She assured us that it was, and from speaking of her own church, and then of prominent members of that congregation, she was shifted by degrees to the Bewden family, old friends, she said, and certainly good Christians.

“Yes, Mr. Wilson,” she said to Holmes. “They are a fine family. Mrs. Bewden is generous to the poor, and her daughter Dorothy too, who attends our sewing circle for the missionaries.”

“And the elder daughter, Miss Heather?” I asked.

“Has other fish to fry,” was the tart response. The lady then looked guilty. “I ought not to speak so, but it is no secret. The man who took over her father’s business is unwed, a well-set-up man, and it is past time he looked about him for a wife. That is one thing, but Heather made a dead-set at him, silly girl. I do not think she was pleased when he made it clear he had no interest in her.”

Holmes promptly led the talk in another direction until we could part amicably from Miss Tremworth, and once we did so he hustled me around a corner and onto an omnibus. We rode for some minutes before alighting again and halting, after a brief walk, before a building with two sets of wide doors. A sign along the frontage proclaimed it to be Chas. Hewitt – Storage and Deliveries.

I read the words and guessed this must be the business Latimer Bewden had once owned. But why were we here?

“Because,” my friend informed me, “a man pursued to the point where people speak of it is likely not to be reticent when asked about his pursuer. I think that here we may find truth, and if fortune is with us, information also.”

And with that he marched forward, entering the door marked Office, and requesting politely of the young man there that we be permitted to speak with the owner. I waited with him, hoping that here we would, as the lawyers say, hear something to our advantage. Mr. Hewitt was with us almost at once, and on hearing that our business was confidential, took us to his own office, shut the door, sat us down, and waited.

He was in his early thirties, about six feet in height with quite fair hair, hazel eyes, a wiry rather than a strong or stout build and with pleasant regular features. However his expression was that of a man who keeps his own council, showing little but a bland amicability.

He, in turn, was studying us with interest. “Now, gentlemen, what can I do for you?”

Holmes leaned forward. “You can tell us what you know of Mrs. Bewden’s absence,” he said softly. “There is worry growing over her whereabouts, and no one appears to know her direction, although she has now been gone from her home almost two months.”

That, I thought, was placing our cards on the table with a vengeance. I waited eagerly to see the hand Mr. Hewitt might show us, which was not long in coming.

“I see,” he said slowly. “You have become aware of my—relationship—with the Bewdens, and you assume that I may know something more than is known to the public.”

He fell silent briefly, and looked down at the papers on his desk. He frowned, and looked up at us again. “Who are you that I should tell you anything?”

My friend nodded. “A fair question. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson.” (I saw that my friend’s name was not unknown to him.) “A relative of Mrs. Bewden has become anxious about her absence. Upon inquiry, as I said, she discovered that the lady has been gone, supposedly on holiday, for almost eight weeks, that no one knows where she went, or if she reached her destination. It is unknown if she is well, or when she intends to return. In short, Mr. Hewitt, almost two months ago Mrs. Bewden vanished and has not been seen since.”

Hewitt’s face cleared. “I had not considered it in that light before, and I must say that put so, it does seem strange. It is unlike the lady, to say the very least. She is kind, generous, and always considerate.

“But why have her daughters raised no concerns? I know both, and I am sure that were their mother genuinely missing they would spare no effort to seek her out and see her restored to the family.”

“On the contrary,” Holmes said dryly. “Miss Heather has been assuring everyone that her mother has gone on holiday, that she was worn down by distress over constant family arguments caused entirely by Miss Dorothy. For Miss Dorothy’s part, she denies any such thing, saying that her mother left home during Miss Dorothy’s absence. While Miss Heather says their mother is on holiday, she claims neither to know where their mother went nor when she will return. Apparently Mrs. Bewden told two other friends that she was going on holiday, but that is hearsay, and we have not been able to find the names of these friends.”

He steepled his fingers and studied Hewitt over them. “It is these things that are causing my client to ask questions, since none of it, as you yourself say, is in the lady’s character, and her relative is becoming suspicious. Of what precisely, she is unable to say. Suffice it that she feels something is wrong and wishes to ascertain the true whereabouts and condition of Mrs. Bewden …”

Hewitt nodded, paused, and then made up his mind. “I shall speak frankly, since after hearing what you have to say, I too am becoming, if not suspicious, then anxious for the lady. Very well, then. Miss Heather mentioned to me some time ago that her mother was in need of a holiday. I do not know if you are aware, but Mrs. Bewden has some trouble with her heart. She is now in her early sixties, and last year she had a fainting spell that her doctor ascribed to cardiac weakness. This year she had another, and when I heard she was taking a holiday, I was not surprised.”

He shuffled through papers and produced one. “This is the latest statement from my bank. I should mention that I purchased a controlling share in Mr. Bewden’s business upon his death. I own sixty percent and, since I also manage the work directly, I receive seventy percent of the net profits. The remaining thirty percent goes to Mrs. Bewden twice a year. She receives other income which is paid six-monthly, and because of that Mrs. Bewden told me that the business might pay her share that way instead of the usual quarterly payments, since it saves on the accounting costs.”

He answered Holmes’s raised eyebrow with bland stare. “I know, unusual consideration and not at all businesslike, but that was the lady all over. I agreed, of course, but I keep a close eye on the account
myself, and if at any time she wishes to reverse that arrangement I stand ready. But I can tell you this, Mr. Holmes. The lady has a very adequate income—she lives within it, in fact—and she is able to draw upon her money from any branch of the bank we have in common. She once told me that she always retains a good balance of available cash in her current account, so as to cover any unexpected demand that may arise.”

Holmes said, “You have the same bank, you say?” Hewitt nodded and from the look on his face he guessed the request about to be made. “Are you willing to speak privately to your bank manager on this matter?”

The man nodded once, decisively. “I am. Jonas Isaacson is an old friend of mine, as well as my bank manager. His youngest brother was my best friend throughout our schooling and I’ve known Jonas all my life. It will set my own mind at rest if he’ll cooperate. If Mrs. Bewden has been withdrawing normal sums of money, it will show that all is well.”

“It will show us something else,” Holmes pointed out. “The bank will know her direction and we can go there to bespeak the lady.”

“Yes, quite.” He sprang to his feet. “At once, gentlemen. Let us go now.”

We followed him from the office, where in passing he seized a hat, placing that upon his head as he exited the building. He strode across the yard, out the gates, and almost immediately crossed the road and proceeded down the pavement like a Juggernaut. I reflected that, if he acted as decisively in business as he did now, then it was no wonder that Chas. Hewitt – Storage and Deliveries did so well, or was so well thought of.

We arrived at the bank where Hewitt asked to see the manager. Upon us being immediately received, he dropped into a chair, waved us to two others and addressed the short, stout manager directly.

“This is confidential, Jonas.” He waved away the response. “I know, I know, but it isn’t only business, it’s personal. I’m asking you to do something that isn’t quite illegal, but it’s near the knuckle. Listen.” He recounted what we had said, and his own growing misgivings as he heard our story.

I understood from his use of the manager’s first name that he was placing his request on an entirely personal footing, and I saw at once that it was understood to be so.

Jonas Isaacson nodded once or twice as he listened, and again once his client and friend were done. “I understand your concern. One moment.” He picked up a small silver bell and rang it sharply twice. A door opened and a young man stepped into the office.

“Bring me the current file on Mrs. Martha Bewden, Mathews. Do so without being obvious about it, and say nothing of my request to anyone. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

We had only to wait three or four minutes before the young man returned to lay a voluminous file on Isaacson’s desk. Mathews exited the office in silence and the manager opened the file. He read, turned a page, read, and looked up at our companion.

“I don’t like it, Charles, but I admit that I now share your misgivings. It is possible there are innocent explanations, but all in all, it seems there may also be cause to worry. Nor do I like it that the person in question may be travelling with a large amount of jewelry, which I happen to know is insured for over five thousand pounds—that is, if as you say, she did indeed take almost everything. As Mrs. Bewden’s bank manager I can countenance what I am about to tell you, and should head office demand an explanation I can say that I was approached by concerned citizens and a man who is known to be a respected consultant to the Police.”

Holmes nodded. “I am on terms as well with a certain person at your head office.” He mentioned a name and Isaacson blinked. “If there are any doubts that you acted correctly and with intelligence, I shall resolve them.”

“Then I can tell you that Mrs. Bewden withdrew her normal sums up to the time you noted as her departure on holiday. At that time, she withdrew a more substantial sum, such as would provide for travel, a hotel, and small purchases for perhaps a week or even two were she modest in her commitments. After that, gentlemen, she has withdrawn only one further amount.”

“And that amount?”

“Again, perhaps sufficient for another week or two if her demands were moderate.”

Holmes looked at him. “So, her monies should have given her either genuine comfort for two weeks, or barely sufficed for four, and after that she would, so far as your knowledge runs, be penniless?”

“That is so.” The bank manager agreed. “However, she could have sold some of her jewelry.”

“She could, but why should she?” Holmes asked reasonably. “The fact that she was able to withdraw money once indicates she should have been able to continue doing so without difficulty. And there is this: should she have been unable for some reason to access those funds, she could, as you say, have sold something to pay for the journey home. If she were unable to obtain her usual monies, why would she remain wherever she was? No, she would sell something to pay her ticket and return home, if only to demand an accounting. That she has neither continued to withdraw money for her expenses nor returned is now a matter for real concern.”

The bank manager looked him in the eye. “Sir, I have no idea how I should act, nor what steps I should take. Clearly the matter cannot be left as it is now it had been brought to my attention. What should I do?”

Holmes spoke decisively. “Can you tell us from which branch of your bank the lady made her last withdrawal? Once we have that information, my colleague and I shall go there at once to make inquiries. If there is any criticism of your actions it can be seen that upon certain concerns being made known to you, you at once agreed to private inquiries being made, since the person in question is a valued customer.”

Isaacson nodded slowly. “That seems best. Yes. I have a note here from our branch in Cornwall. It is recently opened and very small, merely a manager and three others. It is situated in the town of Lanivell, and I am prepared to provide a letter on bank paper over my own signature requesting the staff give you every facility. You may make your own decisions as to how much you tell them.”

Hewitt nodded. “Thank you, Jonas. Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll be found and returned safely.”

His friend grinned. “If not, the daughters will do very well, and you could do worse,” His smile widened. “It isn’t as if one of them wouldn’t be willing.”

Charles Hewitt’s expression did not change and he said nothing, but a slight flush appeared on his cheekbones, and his friend, seeing that the witticism had not been well received, said no more. After he had written the promised letter and handed it to Holmes, he showed us out politely. Hewitt made the pace back to his office, but once there he sat down with a thump and glared out the window until Holmes broke the silence.

“There is gossip,” he said quietly. “Where there are people they will always chatter. What can you tell me of Miss Heather’s character?”

“She is trouble,” Hewitt said in acid tones. “It may be that she means no harm, but she prefers her own way, she over-rides the wishes of
others, she believes always that her decisions are best and that she knows what is right for everyone else. Her sister is a martyr to her, as is their mother. It is all Miss Heather. I was astounded to hear that her sister stood up to her for once over the Chisholms.”

I commented on that. “I do not think Miss Dorothy as downtrodden as is accepted. It is more she keeps the peace for the sake of her mother, whom she loves. And I suspect that much of what her sister demands is so petty Miss Dorothy sees no reason to make a hullabaloo over trifles. On this occasion, she knew her mother would not have agreed, and she herself found such actions unconscionable.” Another thought came into my mind.

“Look at the circumstances surrounding that action. The sister says she had her mother’s consent to access their main bank account. Now she says that she has the right to dismiss two faithful servants, not just from their position on the estate, but from what has been their long-time home as well. Miss Dorothy swore to us that she has seen no sign the Chisholms are skimping their work, or unable to do it conscientiously. Now why would her sister think her mother would agree to the Chisholms’ departure?

“Or,” I leaned forward. “Could it be that this is why Mrs. Bewden went away? Could it be that she was unable herself to dismiss them to their face, and that instead she asked her elder daughter to do so in her mother’s absence? Is she staying away until such time as Miss Heather should advise her they have packed and gone, after which she can return home, made comfortable by not having to confront them?”

Holmes glanced at me. “An interesting theory, Watson, and not utterly impossible. Yet it does not explain why the lady has not returned when she appears to have no further funds available.”

“Embarrassment,” I said promptly. “The Chisholms remain. If she returns then Miss Dorothy—and even the Chisholms, perhaps—will demand to know why they were to be dismissed. If Mrs. Bewden says she knows nothing of it and harsh questions are asked of Miss Heather, would she not retaliate by saying, and possibly proving, that the dismissal was her mother’s wish—supposing that really was the case?”

Hewitt nodded. “You think that Mrs. Bewden is staying away until the Chisholms are gone? But they haven’t left, and so long as Miss Dorothy remains adamant, they’ll stay. I daresay the old lady couldn’t have foreseen her younger daughter being so determined, but she is, and Mrs. Bewden can hardly stay in Cornwall for the rest of her life.” He frowned a little. “And still, I don’t like that Miss Heather claims to have the right to their main account, either. She bullies their mother, I know, but I thought there was some legal clause within the will that prevented her accessing those monies.”

Holmes sat up. “What?”

“I can’t recall the exact wording. It was something said in passing several years ago, but I was left with the impression that only Mrs.
Bewden may withdraw funds from the family’s main account. That is the one intended to support the estate, pay the servants, and support the old lady herself. Other funds go into the daughters’ accounts and those they may withdraw, each from her account, but not from their mother’s funds. I may be wrong, and if Miss Heather has a written agreement that she is able to do so then that must be allowed for in case of injury, or even death.”

“That is so, supposing injury or death had been known to have occurred. Even then it would require the involvement of lawyers and possibly Mr. Isaacson. Would you be able to ask your friend about it?”

Hewitt nodded. “I can and will do so this very minute.” He reached for pen and paper, scribbled busily, blotted the result once he was satisfied, sealed it in an envelope, and wrote a direction. Mathews arrived to answer the silver bell and was handed the envelope.

“Take that to Mr. Isaacson at the bank, no one else. Wait for a reply.”

Mathews left and while we waited a pleasant cold lunch was ordered, arrived and we partook peacefully, after which the talk turned less comfortably to the Bewden sisters.

“I gave Miss Heather no encouragement,” Hewitt protested, explaining some of the circumstances upon Holmes’s request. “I was warned about the woman, for she has the habit of taking fancies to men she deems suitable. She had caused some embarrassment in the past, and when she showed interest I was warned not to let her close. The man who said so was of the opinion that she hoped to compromise some man who was comfortably off, so that she might have an establishment of her own, free of her mother and sister.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “She has sufficient monies of her own should she wish to be free of relations. My information is that her savings and yearly income would allow her to buy a cottage, take a paid companion, have a couple of servants, and do as she wishes. And at thirty, there would be few to gossip about her.”

Hewitt looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know about that. Perhaps she wants a husband, or maybe she’d like a larger estate rather than a cottage.”

I met his gaze. “And possibly the husband is the most important?”

His face showed little expression but he visibly squirmed. “Er, perhaps.”

I was satisfied. Well, well. So Miss Heather could be one who
desired marriage not only for financial improvements in their situation, but for certain other matrimonial advantages.

I considered what I knew of her reportedly autocratic character and thought it unlikely she would find many men willing to be henpecked. The lady—from the sound of it—made it clear she was of that ilk to any man who met her more than once. I would have said that her matrimonial prospects were not as good as they might otherwise be for one who brought a fair dowry to any marriage. It was certainly clear that Hewitt would not have considered such a match did she come gold-plated, nor did I blame him. I also considered the possibility that she was traduced, that she was merely a woman who knew her own mind, and that this had been exaggerated by others.

As I mused there came a tap at the door. Mathews was returned, and I sat straighter as he handed over a sealed envelope and was dismissed while Hewitt eagerly tore open the missive. He scanned it in seconds before handing it to Holmes, who read it and passed it to me.

Mr. Isaacson did know that the Bewdens’ main account was available only to Mrs. Bewden under normal circumstances. However, the bank received a letter from the account-holder some six months ago asking that her elder daughter be added to those who could access the funds therein to continue normal estate upkeep upon her mother’s being away from home for any reason and for a period of more than a month.

This proviso had been added to the account, and upon the information that the account-holder planned to be absent from home for some time, Miss Heather Bewden’s name was added to those permitted to withdraw funds from that particular source until her mother returned or cancelled such agreement. Since neither event had yet occurred, that access continued.

And on a separate half sheet of paper, Jonas Isaacson had added further comments that made us look thoughtfully at each other.

Charles, I took a look at this particular account, comparing the withdrawals made by the daughter to those of her mother over previous similar months and times. They should have been very close in total amounts. They are not. Miss Bewden is withdrawing almost twice what her mother would spend over the same period. I have no right to tell you this or to take any action, since it is all agreed to in writing earlier. Only her mother could protest it. Yet I am increasingly worried. Please destroy this note, but I believe it is useful for you to have the information.

J.I.

Hewitt took back the note from my hand and, screwing it up, placed it in a large brass ashtray and struck a match. The paper flared and was consumed while I sat thinking. Holmes, too, was silent.

It was our companion who spoke first, while regarding the smudge of black ash.

“I don’t like any of this. Heather Bewden is a bully, but I believed her honestly fond of her mother, although perhaps not so warm towards her sister, whom I think she regards as a rival. However, I began to fear there was something wrong when first I heard what you had to say, now that apprehension has grown. Yet there is no proof of anything discreditable having taken place. Mrs. Bewden went on holiday, and she had that right. She has chosen not to return yet; that right is also hers. She has made no withdrawals from her account for some weeks, however, she may have taken with her money that she earlier set aside.

“Her elder daughter withdraws more money than is usually required, but she has a legally established right to do so and is answerable only to her mother. She has attempted to dismiss old servants, but permitted her younger sister to override that decision. I am uneasy, yet there is no legal basis to take any action whatsoever. Does that sum it up for you, gentlemen?”

It did for me and I said so, adding that, “The only thing to do is find Mrs. Bewden and learn from her own lips how much of what we know is fact and how much is the counsel of our fears.”

Holmes stirred. “Yes, over the years I have seen too many relatives, supposedly devoted to some relation, who have chosen instead to cheat, steal, lie or betray them. Yet the truth is those we see are a small percentage, for usually such devotion is genuine. And even where it is not, that still does not mean that harm would ever be meant or deliberately carried out. It is as Watson says. We must seek out Mrs. Bewden and discover her wishes, and if she is well.”

He turned to me. “Let us return to London today. A night’s rest and I shall travel to Cornwall, where I shall begin my inquiries as to the whereabouts of Mrs. Martha Bewden. The town is not large, and we should be able to find her trail, if not the lady herself. If you can find the time to travel with me, Watson, I would be glad of your company.”

I assured him at once. “My semi-retired doctor friend will be delighted to assist. My patients are familiar with him, and will not mind that he attends them for a few days. Yes, Holmes. I shall be happy to assist you, as ever.”

Hewitt regarded us. “I have a small request, gentlemen. Where possible, keep me informed of any developments in the case. In fact, if your integrity permits, I would wish to contribute to expenses.”

Holmes nodded. “I accept on the condition that such a contribution does not limit our investigations in any way. You are merely defraying some expected costs. We are not being hired, and you are not our client.” Hewitt agreed. “On that understanding then, we shall accept something toward expenses and provide information as and when it seems reasonable to do so.”

Hewitt again indicated he found that acceptable and, reaching into his desk, he removed several banknotes from a drawer, placed them into an envelope and passed it to me. I received it with a word of thanks.

Holmes stood and looked at Hewitt. “One final item. Can you give us a clear physical description of Mrs. Bewden? One that makes no
allowance for any partiality you might feel?”

“I can. She is approximately five foot three inches in height. She has mid-brown hair, quite long, which she habitually wears in a bun. She has a clear, fair complexion, blue eyes, and a rather weak chin. Her figure is dumpy, her feet and hands small, and she speaks with no particular accent save that of her class. She dresses very conservatively, showing nothing more than hands and head. She normally wears clothing of neutral colors, and her constant accessory is a large handbag of brown leather. Her gloves and shoes habitually match that.

“She is conservative as to her friends, also. I would say that she has only three or four who are close to her, women of similar age, opinions, class, and all church-goers. Her acquaintances are of the same type and it is my opinion that this would continue where she has gone. She is polite and pleasant to those below her socially, but not likely to discuss anything personal. Will that do?”

“It will indeed,” Holmes said.

With that we took our leave of Hewitt and the town of Bartlett, and—pausing only to ask a few further questions of Miss Dorothy, who met us as arranged at a café—we took a taxi to the railway station, where we found a train about to depart for London. We caught that and once in the carriage I sat back in the comfortable seat, removing the envelope containing Hewitt’s contribution from my pocket and passing it over to Holmes.

We had a case, a client, and a most intriguing set of events to consider. Where those would lead us I did not know. What I did know was that I was on the trail again, following my friend, and as ever that was enough for me. I allowed the clickety-clack of the wheels to lull me into a light doze while we sped towards London and Baker Street.

3

The next morning was fine although a little chilly. I had bespoken my locum the evening before, so for the next week I was free to do whatever Holmes required. Holmes and I therefore had an early breakfast and left to take the train by eight. On the way, we briefly discussed what we should do.

“It is possible, Watson, that Mrs. Bewden has been taken ill and is in the town hospital, or under some form of medical care,” Holmes theorized.

I considered that. “In which case, I suggest that as soon as we arrive and secure ourselves a hotel room, I find both hospital, should there be one, and the local doctor. I can talk to him on equal terms, and if he knows anything, Holmes, be sure I shall know it also.”

“I am certain of that,” my friend responded. “Once you have made all possible inquiries there, return to the hotel and we shall share with each other what knowledge, if any, that we have gained.”

I heard something in his tone and looked at him sharply. “You think we may find nothing?”

“I am uncertain. I am not usually prey to foreboding, Watson, as you know, yet I do not like the circumstances. From what we have been told of the lady’s character it is not like her to disappear, leaving her family and friends to worry. She has been described by all who know her as conventional to a fault, and also kind and considerate. How considerate is it to depart on a long and wholly unexpected holiday without informing one of her two daughters that she was intending to do so? Without writing to them once she arrived? Without giving anyone a date by which she planned to return, and then, to all intents and purposes, to vanish into thin air, without, so far as is known, funds to sustain herself?

“If we find no trace of her here, we shall return to Bartlett at once and, will she, nil she, I shall interview Miss Heather Bewden and demand of her full particulars as to her mother’s departure and intentions, and all else she might know on that score, since such a disappearance is also against convention and unlike her mother.”

“After which,” I replied dryly, remembering all we had been told of that particular lady, “you’ll undoubtedly be shown the door and told never to darken it again.”

We were still chuckling when the taxi pulled up at the railway station. The driver was paid, we alighted quickly and, taking up a small case each, we purchased tickets before heading into the morning bustle to find our train. I paused to purchase two different newspapers, and once we found our carriage we settled in reasonable comfort and became engrossed in newsprint.

The journey was a long one, but we had brought food with us and a vendor passed through the carriages offering mugs of tea, which both I and Holmes accepted. More usefully still I fell into conversation with a middle-aged gentleman from the very place to which we were going and he was able to provide some information.

“No, we have no hospital of our own. If you need a hospital you go to Bodmin, but that is only a matter of a few miles. However, we have an excellent doctor, a man called Hampson, and even when he retires, if he ever does, his son has recently returned from Plymouth hospital to take up practice with him. It works well, for the old man knows everyone in Lanivell and everything about them, and the young one is up with all the new things. He isn’t married, so all the lasses have an eye to him.” He chuckled richly.

“As for a hotel? I’d recommend The Cornish Hen. It’s respectable, with excellent food, is only a step or two from the station, and while it’s quiet enough, it’s more for gentlemen who want good quality and comfort, but like neither the rowdy nor shabby-genteel. If you want a fancy place you could look at the Wendover, or if you want a place that’s livelier, go to The White Bull, but for solid comfort and a pleasant atmosphere, you can’t go past The Hen.”

He gave precise directions and I stowed those away in my memory. The Cornish Hen did sound the place to stay, and being barely two blocks from the station we would be able to walk there, since we brought no more than a small case each. Well, that is, only those and my medical bag, and the accoutrement that I have in a pocket at such times. I was unlikely to require that, but better to have it and not require it, than to require it desperately and not have it to hand.

After weary hours, the train pulled into a station, and my acquaintance alighted with a final word of farewell and also the assurance that should there be any way in which he could aid us, we had only to call on him. Holmes stood once the man was gone, took down our bags and passed mine to me before striding towards the door. We alighted, and I waved off a porter.

“You heard what was said, Holmes. I think that The Cornish Hen is worth consideration. Let us walk there to stretch our legs and if we do not fancy the place, we can take a taxi elsewhere.”

In the event, we both approved the hotel, and on being offered a small suite of two bedrooms, a sitting-room, and a bathroom, we took that on an initial occupancy of two nights, with the option to add another night at a time if required. With our baggage deposited, a meal ordered, and having used the bathroom each in turn, we repaired to the hotel dining room and enjoyed an ample and well-cooked meal, before retiring to our sitting-room to discuss what we should do first after tomorrow’s breakfast.

“I will call on the doctor, Holmes. What do you plan to do?”

“Find the hotel in which Mrs. Bewden stayed, once I have determined that she is not residing here. I found it unusual that no one in Bartlett seemed to know to which hotel she had gone.”

Now that he mentioned it, I too found the latter strange. Upon being further applied to before we departed the town, Miss Dorothy said she did not even know the town to which her mother had been going. Her sister, she said, had not known the town or the hotel either—or claimed so, in any event. All she imparted was that their mother was travelling for two or three weeks’ holiday. That it had been to Cornwall was verified by Jonas Isaacson, and from him also we had the name of the town, at least.

Mrs. Bewden, Miss Dorothy said, had been slightly unwell this past year, after two cardiac incidents, and she was not surprised that her mother should choose to spend a short time away. She was deeply surprised that Mrs. Bewden had chosen to go on holiday to a part of the country where, to Miss Dorothy’s knowledge, she had never been before and knew no one.

We knew that Mrs. Bewden stayed a week or two in Lanivell, that she had on one occasion obtained money against her account at the bank. All the rest was yet to be uncovered, and after a good night’s sleep and a sustaining breakfast I set forth on my own errand, while Holmes went to seek out the manager and ask him about those who stayed here, before approaching other hotels.

I found the doctor’s surgery without difficulty. It lay on the edge of the town, and the gleaming brass plate at the door informed me that Doctor Giles Hampson and Doctor Wilfred Hampson had their practice here, and gave the usual surgery hours. I was perhaps half an hour early—and accordingly I trod up the six wide, shallow steps and plied the knocker. The door was opened by one I recognized at once as being of the genus ‘receptionist formidable.’ I know the type: they run their employer’s surgery with a ferocious competence, can account for every penny that come into or goes out of the practice, know all that is to be known, and consider themselves as much a guardian of the portals as any Cerberus.

I raised my hat. “I am Dr. Watson. I have come from London to consult on an important and confidential matter with Dr. Giles Hampson. Here is my card.”

This short speech was carefully crafted. It informed the listener that I had travelled a long distance to be here, that I too was a medical man, and it indicated that even so far away as the capital her employer was known and esteemed. A flush of gratification spread over the lady’s face as she glanced at the offered card and opened the door.

“Please, Doctor, come in. I shall let Dr. Hampson know you are waiting.”

I was shown to a small, empty room, one normally reserved for private patients, and I settled into an armchair. I had barely done so when a craggy-faced man of late middle years bustled in, my card in his left hand.

“I’m Dr. Hampson. What’s all this about, and who are you?”

“I am Dr. Watson, from London,” I began as I stood to greet him.

He gave a snort. “I can read. I meant, why are you here? Our receptionist says you want to consult me on some important and confidential case. I find that unlikely. You some sort of trickster, eh? Want to sell me medical equipment for twice its value, or get a reference of some kind? Is that it?”

I shook my head and plunged into an abrupt explanation. “No, none of those things. I am here with a friend in search of an elderly lady who came from near London to Lanivell for a holiday, and who has now disappeared. Her daughter is gravely concerned, and considering the circumstances, so are we. I may add that her business partner has also asked us to investigate, since he too finds some of the events unusual.”

Giles Hampson thought that over, walked to the door, and indicated that I should precede him. “Come to my parlor, where we can be private. This sounds both genuine and serious, and I apologize for jumping to conclusions.”

I found myself in a pleasant room which, upon the curtains being flung back, revealed a charming vista of green fields, hedges, and trees. I was waved to a chair and Hampson sat down, to stare at me. “All right. I’ve a half hour before the hordes rush in. Tell me the tale. I’ll listen; I can say no more than that.”

I spoke, laying out the events, concluding, “So, Mrs. Bewden is said, having been recently unwell and under some strain, to have gone on a holiday. I found that strange, since her younger daughter says that her mother does not know this county nor anyone within it. And why would a woman who has had two cardiac incidents in the past year not only travel to a place so distant, but also one so far from her usual doctor? That is not the usual way of a patient.” I looked at him for confirmation and received it.

I added what else we had found unusual and with those points too he agreed. “Aye, Dr. Watson, I see now why you are here. What I can tell you is not likely to add information or to your peace of mind. I have been the doctor here in Lanivell for more than twenty years. I am regularly called into hotels here should a resident become ill, and had your Mrs. Bewden been so I would most certainly have heard of it. I can tell you I have had no such call to anyone fitting the lady’s description.”

He frowned. “There is another and darker possibility. We have here and there on the outskirts of the town small cottages that are for rent. Sometimes the owner acts as a housekeeper, sometimes her service is not requested nor her presence wanted. Should your missing woman have taken one of these places she could have suffered another attack while alone, her plight unknown to anyone.” Our gazes met. “In which case,” he added quietly, “if she paid some weeks in advance she may still be there, although, so to speak, no longer present.”

“Are you able to assist me in finding out?”

“I am, and I will do so. Call back here this evening after my surgery hours. I’ll have a word with our police. They know me and they’ll have someone check every cottage to let. If she’s here, dead or alive, they’ll find her. What will you do if we don’t?”

“My companion is making inquiries at the hotels here, after which he has a letter for the bank manager.”

“Something should come from that,” my colleague agreed.

We took our leave of each other with goodwill, and I strolled back to The Cornish Hen, stopping to investigate several shops containing local items and souvenirs. Mrs. Hudson has never been to Cornwall to my knowledge, and I believed that she would appreciate some small token. I settled on a useful and attractive set of eggcups—four of them in white china with the Cornish coat of arms on one side, and a small, prettily painted Cornish scene on the other. I had them well wrapped and returned to our hotel, where I found Holmes in our suite.

“Good timing, Watson. I was just thinking about lunch.”

My stomach interjected a comment, and Holmes gave one of his rare smiles. “I see we are in agreement. Let us have the food sent up and we can talk here in comfort, without fear of eavesdroppers.”

I washed the town’s dust from my face and hands, removed my jacket, and rejoined my friend just as a knock sounded, heralding our lunch: a salad with bread and butter, a cheeseboard to follow, and all washed down with local cider. We fell to, and between mouthfuls I gave a brief account of my morning.

“I’ll return to see Hampson around five this afternoon, he may have something for me by then. And your morning, Holmes—did you find any trace of Mrs. Bewden?”

“I can sum that up in one word, Watson. No.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. There are the three hotels your friend from the train listed. In addition there are boarding houses and half-a-dozen large houses owned by those who take in short-term lodgers to assist with the household expenses. None of them has ever had as a client, or even heard of, a Mrs. Bewden. I knew there would be cottages for rent and had intended to ask about them this afternoon. Since the doctor and police will do a faster job of it, we’ll leave it to them. You did give him a clear description of the lady?”

“I provided him with the same as Hewitt gave us. If she has not dyed her hair, taken to wearing bright clothing, lost her handbag, or now wears very high heels to change her height, she should be readily identifiable.” My tone was a touch sarcastic. I have known those who go missing to do exactly that.

Holmes dissented. “I do not believe her so determined not to be found.” His eyes glimmered with amusement. “And from all accounts, she is unlikely to think of such things.” He sobered. “However, I dislike this situation more and more, Watson. If she did not stay at a hotel here, or in any boarding house in town, where was she living for the time she was withdrawing money? It must have been in one of those cottages Hampson mentioned. But why? Why would a woman who wished a
relaxing holiday rent a cottage, where in all probability she would have to do her own cooking, at the least?”

“I know,” I said. “Nor is it as if she did not have the money to stay in a hotel.”

Holmes looked exasperated. “It is all something and nothing. We have no reason to believe she is in danger or has come to harm. This may be merely a case of a woman who has become tired of her occupations and family and decided to take leave of them for a while. And yet, you know, Watson, I cannot feel comfortable about it.”

I finished my cider, placed the glass on the table with a decisive click and spoke quietly. “Nor I. I have been a doctor for quite some time, and it is my experience that when a patient makes such radical changes in their behavior, it often portends ill. Afterward everyone says they saw nothing to indicate it, that nothing was ever said or done to make them honestly uneasy. Nevertheless, too often the situation has resulted in a death, and the way this woman has behaved is like others I have known.”

Holmes sighed. “That too is a possibility. If she has done so, where do you think the body likely to be, since no one has yet discovered it?”

“In whatever cottage she rented,” I said decisively. “Tucked up in bed, wearing her best clothing, and most likely a letter on the bedside table apologizing for being such a trouble to everyone, along with an extra week’s rent for the cottage.”

Holmes eyed me. “I see. And if she went to the coast and threw herself over a cliff?”

“Most unlikely,” I said. “People of her age, gender, and class want to look pleasant still when they are found. On the way to such a cliff she would think how long it might be before she washed ashore, and what she would look like after days or even weeks of being prey to sea-creatures. Then there would be a question of identification. She would not wish her daughters to see her like that. No, if she is dead by her own hand, she will be in a rented cottage, did she rent one.”

My friend eyed me and nodded. “I agree. Once it is the time Hampson suggested, go and see him.” He glanced over at the parcel I brought back. “If I may ask, Watson, what is that?” I explained and he looked thoughtful. “That offers another possibility for inquiry. Mrs. Bewden may have purchased such items to take back for her daughters, and she may be remembered.”

The waiter came in to remove our trolley, and soon after that we left our suite, I to visit the library, for visitors to a town often ask there of interesting places to see, and Holmes to seek out emporiums where our quarry might have shopped.

I returned for a belated afternoon tea, and went out again immediately thereafter to call upon Hampson. He was home, answered his own door, and ushered me through to the parlor again. Once we sat he began, with a broad, pleased smile.

“Since it is outside the usual time for holiday-makers and hence the town is less busy, the police said that it would be good practice for a constable to make inquiries. In the end, they provided two who covered every cottage known to be available for rent.

“We have her trail, Dr. Watson! She rented a one-bedroom cottage usually taken by those on honeymoon, situated south of the town. There she stayed for two weeks, after which she left. There is some suggestion she was going to stay by Bodmin Moor.”

“This cottage, where is it?” He gave the location—for I thought Holmes would wish to speak to the owner himself—and I then asked, “Can you tell me, under what terms was the place rented?”

“The most basic. Food left for a single meal upon the occupant’s arrival, and after that she would require nothing. The owner need not cook, clean, or attend her in any way. The owner was paid the two weeks rent in advance, and the cottage was left clean and tidy upon departure.”

“After which it has had other occupants?” I asked, and was pleased to hear that it had not.

Hampson was keen to help us along the trail. “I have a friend, a doctor in Bodmin. I could give you a letter of introduction, should it be of any help.”

I accepted the offer. It would please this good man to think he had aided us, even if the letter proved of no use, and we parted jovially. I reached the hotel close to seven, and found Holmes just entering the lobby in my wake.

I spoke first. “I want a bath and then dinner.”

“As do I, Watson. Go up now, I have something to ask the manager here first.”

I obeyed, and had just exited the bath when I heard my friend enter the suite. I bustled to my bedroom and dressed for dinner. I was ready before Holmes, and took a newspaper to our sitting-room while I waited. Holmes joined me promptly and we descended the stairs, talking of a strange sighting that was the subject of current headlines. Frankly, I do not believe in black panthers that roam the moor, taking sheep, terrorizing shepherds, and slaughtering farm dogs.

Several farmers claimed their flocks decimated. (For once a correct use of the word, since apparently about one in ten of the unfortunate animals were slaughtered.) The carcasses were examined by the police and there was much dissension as to the cause, some people agreeing that the deaths had been at the claws and teeth of a huge feline, others saying that they had come by the teeth of a dog. I considered the latter more likely, since almost every farmer has experienced the depredations of a large stray dog turned killer at some time. And I have spent sufficient time in the country to be familiar with such problems.

Holmes considered all the evidence and testimonies when I raised the subject and informed me, “While it is not impossible that it is the work of a great cat, it is very unlikely, to say the least. If in the search of the entire moor—so far as that can be achieved—they find anything, it is more like to be a large domestic cat, the animal’s size wrongly judged by witnesses from a combination of excitement, poor eyesight, and the blurring of distance, dusk, or fog.”

I agreed. At the time, I had no idea what might be found on such a vast and lonely moor. That was something we would discover later.

* * *

Once secluded at our table I recounted what I learned from Hampson. Holmes listened before commenting.

“The landlady says she believed the lady to be making for Bodmin on her departure from Lanivell. We must ascertain what makes her of that belief, and if no one has rented the cottage since Mrs. Bewden, it should be searched. That has been good work on your part, my dear Watson.” I demurred and he shook his head. “No, if you had not managed to get on terms with Hampson, he would not have been so cooperative. It was his friendship with the police that allowed us to advance. Meanwhile, I made an appointment with the bank manager. I sent in Isaacson’s letter when I arrived after lunch, and was admitted.”

“He was cooperative?”

“Very much so. The information he was able to give agrees with that of Isaacson, who noted that at that time Mrs. Bewden went away she withdrew a substantial sum, sufficient to provide for travel, a hotel, and small purchases for perhaps a week or even two, were she modest in her commitments. Once at Lanivell she withdrew only one further sum, sufficient for another week or two.”

I remembered the conversation. “You said after that she would, so far as our knowledge ran, be penniless?”

“Yes. I had not considered her renting a cottage, which is cheaper still than a hotel or boarding house, so her money could have lasted as long as six or seven weeks. Yet there is this: I found no shopkeeper in
Lanivell who remembered her. No café or restaurant where she had eaten. We shall inquire of the shops within walking distance of the cottage if they sold her basic food such as bread and butter, milk or tea. I think it unlikely she shopped further afield since, so far as I can ascertain, she took no taxi anywhere at any time, something I also find unusual.”

I thought about that. It might seem unlikely that a driver would
remember each and every passenger, but the lady had been here out of season. If she had taken taxis there was a good chance their drivers would recall her.

I waited, my gaze on my friend’s face.

He nodded. “Yes, the more we hear, the more we are left to wonder,” he said quietly. “There is an increasing list of small items that make us uneasy. In the morning we shall go to this cottage and talk to its owner. We shall also speak to a Mr. Symonds.” I looked a question. “He is the young man who served the lady at the bank. He had a half-day today, but I am assured we can find him at work tomorrow. We shall go there first, then to the cottage, if that program does not inconvenience you, Watson?”

I said it did not and we finished our dinner in harmony. The evening passed in reading, Holmes with a scientific treatise, and I with the late newspaper. After an undisturbed night and a nourishing English breakfast, we set out on foot for the bank.

4

Once inside the building and upon the announcement of our names we were welcomed and escorted to the manager’s office, where a young man rose at once to greet us.

“I was asked to meet you in private, gentlemen, so that we could speak frankly. I am Edward Symonds, and I am told you wish to hear whatever I may know of one of our recent customers, a Mrs. Bewden?”

I closed the door firmly behind us, and Holmes and I sat down, indicating to young Symonds that he should do so as well. He did not look entirely like a bank clerk, since he was a tall, strong-looking lad of some twenty years. His dark brown hair was cut short, and his brown eyes were direct and honest, with both intelligence and common sense. His evidence might be of use to us. He sat without fidgeting even though his question remained unanswered, and I thought Holmes to be summing up the boy as to his reliability.

Holmes waited patiently, until Symonds spoke again. “Sir? What do you wish to hear from me?”

“Your account of your meeting with the lady.”

“That is easily told. She came into the bank and asked to withdraw a sum of money. I attended her. She withdrew twenty pounds, saying it should be sufficient to last the remainder of her stay in Lanivell.” He hesitated, and Holmes’s gaze sharpened.

“Mr. Symonds, I do not want to hear only the basic facts, I want to hear everything you noticed, every word said by either of you, even the merest commonplaces, and anything that may have passed through your mind during this encounter.”

Thus adjured, the lad settled back and nodded. “I see, sir. I wondered about the amount for which she asked. The lady wore good quality clothing. Such a lady would likely stay in one of the better hotels, and twenty pounds would not pay her week’s bill. That is, it might be sufficient for the hotel, but when a lady is on holiday she buys things, sir. Small fripperies, souvenirs for friends or family. She may have lunch one day in a town restaurant, afternoon tea in one of our cafés, she may weary and take a taxi. There are a host of things on which small sums may be spent, but they add up.”

I chuckled. “You have women in your family, I gather?”

“I have a mother, two elder sisters, one younger sister, and several female cousins. And I have often gone shopping with them.”

Holmes nodded. “Good. Now, start from the beginning again, and tell us everything from the moment you first saw Mrs. Bewden.”

Symonds began. “I was at my station. The lady entered, crossed the lobby and walked into the main room. I was free so she approached me, produced proof of her account and asked to withdraw money. She then named the sum and my thoughts were as described. I asked if she wished to receive the amount as a single note or broken down into smaller sums, and she said that she would prefer a five pound note with the remainder in sovereigns. From that, I assumed that the money was not to pay a hotel bill, but rather to shop here and there.”

“Good. Did she speak again?

“She took the money as I counted it out, said ‘thank you,’ and left the bank, sir.”

“Describe Mrs. Bewden.”

Symonds looked puzzled. “I cannot describe her face, sir. She was wearing a hat with a veil down to her dress collar, and she had on gloves so that I saw neither her face nor her hands. Other than that, she had a low, well-bred voice. Were I asked to place her station I would say she is the wife of a well-do-do man of the upper-middle classes. Her hands were small, her gloves appeared new—they fitted well, without being ornate. They were quality, tan kid-skin with small pearl buttons. She was perhaps five foot four or five, and while her figure was … stocky would be the polite word, she moved gracefully.”

“How long was her dress, and what of her footwear, her handbag?”

“Her dress fell to her ankles, she wore a medium-sized pair of tan buttoned boots, perhaps a five in size—no more, but not much less. They and the gloves matched her handbag which was also of tan leather, a capacious item, with an attractive silver clasp. She fumbled with that, I recall, when she put the money away in a purse she drew from the handbag. She muttered something then, but I could not make out the words. I asked her pardon, and she shook her head, indicating whatever she had said was not intended to my address.”

“You said earlier that you thought the money was perhaps withdrawn to pay a week’s hotel bill. Why did that suggest itself to you? That is, why did you think the bill for a week rather than only three or four days?”

“I don’t quite know, sir. It was just an impression, and I do not think I could explain it more clearly.”

Holmes nodded. “Impressions may often be true, for they are made up of a host of tiny observations, some of which may not even be consciously noticed. Let us see if we can uncover some of them.”

And with that he questioned the young clerk carefully, eliciting finally the facts that the lady looked like the sort to take a hotel room when on holiday, that most visitors to Lanivell of her type stayed by the week in such accommodation, and that this impression had been added to by the amount. If it were not intended to pay a hotel bill, as the breaking into smaller amounts suggested, then it was to go about the town, enjoy the sights, purchase a plethora of small items, and generally fritter away. For a woman of that class, twenty pounds would be, while a little more than expected, still within the bounds of pin money for such a period, since it would also be sufficient to pay for travel on to another destination thereafter.

Holmes leaned back in the chair. “You see, you did have reasons for your belief.”

The lad beamed. “Thank you. I hope I have helped. Would it be in order to ask, sir, why you are inquiring about the lady? I hope nothing has happened to her.”

I waited to see how Holmes would reply and was surprised when he was quite open. “The lady has disappeared. Nothing has been seen or heard of her since a week after your own encounter, and her family holds grave fears for her,” he said.

Edward Symonds stared. “She didn’t seem the type.”

Both Holmes and I hid our amusement at that ingenuous response. If there is one thing I have learned as my friend’s assistant, it is that there is no type. Teetotalers drink in secret, the most admirable family man may have a mistress, a child may hate and eventually kill, and a woman of late middle-age and no figure may still have someone who yearns to clasp her to his bosom while she reciprocates.

Holmes shook his head. “She may not be of that type,” he said. “She may have gone on to some village on the coast and there had an accident. Her body may lie undiscovered in some isolated spot. She may have been attacked for her money, inadvertently killed and the body concealed. Or, as you suggest, she may have succumbed to some foolish passion and be in Paris with a lover.”

“Oh, sir, I did not mean to imply …”

“Of course, not,” I agreed. “You said she did not seem to be that sort. How would you sum her up in a word, should we ask?”

The clerk considered that. “Respectable, sir. I expect it was her clothing. She reminded me of my aunt.”

“And this aunt is respectable?”

“Ferociously so, sir.”

Even Holmes smiled at that.

We took our leave of the boy, pausing to congratulate the bank
manager on having such an astute and sensible clerk and, leaving the manager appreciative of our praise, we headed into the street.

* * *

Over lunch in our suite I felt a trifle downcast. The clerk’s evidence, although amusing, had not illuminated any new paths, and I knew Holmes hoped for more. I said so and he glanced at me.

“I would not say I gained nothing, Watson. Consider the lady’s gloves and her boots. Then, too, there was her handbag.”

I snorted. “What of them? She wore brown gloves and boots to match her handbag as we were told was her usual custom. No, there’s nothing in that. But,” I became more cheerful, “the woman who rented her the cottage, ah, there we may hear something more useful.”

“That is so,” Holmes replied. “Not least being an answer as to why she thinks Mrs. Bewden went to Bodmin.” His gray eyes glimmered. “It will not be easy to discover her trail there, for it is larger in population and caters to all sizes of purse. A woman arriving in that town could disappear for some time, should she wish to do so.”

I seized on that comment. “You said something of the sort to Symonds. Do you really think she could be in Paris, with or without a … gentleman friend?”

“No, Watson, I do not. However, let us not theorize ahead of the facts. I want to interview this Mrs. Susan Pentree and see what she has to say, and from that a lead may develop.”

We finished eating, the waiter came to remove the trolley, and after an interval of washing and changing clothes and footwear to those suitable for walking some distance in the country, we fared forth to the cottage of Trewithin. There we found Mrs. Susan Pentree, who spoke with an almost impenetrable Cornish accent, which I shall not attempt to replicate. Despite the difficulty of understanding her, however, she was a pleasant woman who invited us in and did her best to be helpful with a spate of information.

“Aye, I remember the lady. Not as I saw much of her. She said things had been upsetting for her at home, and she’d come for a bit of peace and quiet. She’d do her own cooking and cleaning, wouldn’t be going out much, and she spoke truth there all right. I never saw hair nor hide of her t’ whole time she were here. Nor I never went into the place. I left her alone as she asked and I wouldn’t say it didn’t suit me, too. How’d she pay me? Give me a week’s money on arrival, and left me a sovereign on table when I went in to clean once she were gone. How’d I know she were gone? Left me a note on my door.”

“Did you find any of that unusual?” Holmes broke in.

“Aye, that she left me that sovereign and didn’t take anything,” Mrs. Pentree said dryly. “Summer visitors, well, renting a cottage is cheaper than other places, and some seems to think that since it’s cheaper, they’ll have it cheaper still. If it isn’t towels as go, it’s something else. But she left the place neat as a pin, and that sovereign on table along of a note saying thank you.” She looked up at us from her five feet in height and tossed a straggle of dark hair.

“You didn’t bring her any meals …?” Holmes asked, leaving the question trailing and the landlady was off again.

“No, I did not. Said she’d cook for herself and she must’ve done. I daresay she went down to the shops below the cottage and bought food there. They have tinned stuff and packets, and you can buy bread and milk, fruit, and cheese there, too. They’m used to catering to the cottages as is rented, and in season they have a fair amount of food as a tenant can buy. There’s my cottage here, and down the lane a mite there’s the six as old Janson has. Rents them out only in season he does, but they’re bigger nor mine, and you’d be amazed at how many some cram in there when they come on holiday.”

“But it would not have been in season,” I commented. “The lady stayed here well before any holiday-makers would normally arrive.”

“Aye, that’s so. But you can still buy food. I daresay she went walking, maybe one of the farms sold her something. And there’s shops a step away that’d have other food, like I said.” Her brow wrinkled. “Funny though. If she’d bought from there they’d likely have mentioned it to me and no one said anything. Come to think of it, they weren’t open. I do remember wondering how she were managing at the time, but then I thought she must be well enough or she wouldn’t have stayed. Maybe she ate at one of the hotels?”

“That may be so,” Holmes agreed, and turned the talk to Mrs. Bewden’s departure. “I am told you thought her to be travelling on to Bodmin? What made you think so?”

Mrs. Pentree became voluble again. “Ah, that’s easy told. When I came in to clean the cottage I found one of them newspapers still there and folded to show headlines all about that huge black cat as is killing sheep, and how farmers is sitting up with guns, looking for it.” She suddenly roared with laughter. “I got family that way. I heard a story or two on it. So far all they shot were some visitor’s black poodle, a tabby cat belonging to widow Harper, and one of next farm’s sheepdogs. Owner weren’t best pleased, but chap as shot it says the dog shouldn’t have been out at night. Owner says he had his dogs loose to scare off the cat, and I reckon that’ll go to law.”

“That was what made you think Mrs. Bewden was going on to
Bodmin?”

“Aye, paper were all folded to show the story, and I says to myself, you’re going to Bodmin to see if they find that there cat and shoot it. Good luck to you.”

“And if she went to Bodmin, how would she do so?”

Mrs. Pentree paused. “Ah, now that’s a question. I don’t know when she left. I found the note on my door when I got up and went outside, and that were around six on the Friday morning. But I goes to bed soon after eight most evenings, and she could have left it any time after that. There isn’t any proper passenger trains overnight, but there’s the milk train to London leaves at three in the morning. That do stop at Bodmin. Then there’s the omnibus as goes from St. Austell to Bodmin around eight, three mornings a week, or she could maybe have spoken to someone and been taken up if a car were going that way. I tell you true, sirs, I don’t know, but there’s plenty a ways she could have gone did she wish to.”

“May we see the cottage now?” Holmes requested.

We were taken five doors down and shown over a charming small place furnished with items that, while not expensive, were impeccably kept. The fireplace had been cleaned and kindling laid ready again, the double bed was neatly made, curtains pulled back to allow in the sunlight, and the landlady showed us a truckle bed that could be used, along with a baby’s cot, both available in a small pantry-sized room off the kitchen. Holmes and I scoured the cottage and found nothing, not so much as a hairpin or scrap of paper. I looked over the lean-to by the kitchen door, but it held no more than lengths of firewood, a box of kindling, and a sack of coal. Once we were done and back outside, Holmes inclined his head politely.

“Thank you for all your help, Mrs. Pentree. One thing, can you
describe the lady and any luggage she may have had?”

Aside from a different dress, the description matched that of the bank clerk. The luggage consisted of a tan leather suitcase that had seemed to be of a fair weight, but what may have been within she could not say. As to the lady’s features, Mrs. Pentree too could say nothing. Her tenant had worn the same hat and heavy veil.

“I thought maybe she’d been crying.” she confided. “She did say there’d been upset in her home and she wanted peace and quiet, just to be left alone, no one about, no one coming to the door. I thought perhaps someone had died as she was fond of, and she wore the veil to hide that. No, she never said anything about it if that were so, just said she wanted to be away from people and so she was. You’ll have seen, sirs. The cottage stands alone. It were my grandmother’s home and me being the only grandchild it come to me. I didn’t want to sell it. I got two children, and if I have my place and this one I can leave them a home each, like.”

We understood.

“You can see, my home and this place, they stand back from the road and there’s that hedge before them. People can’t look in. I like it that way and so did my grandma.”

We parted from Mrs. Pentree with expressions of esteem on both sides, and as we walked down the lane I glanced back, and saw that she was right. All you could see was a long hedge, some six feet in height, stretching from well before the two cottages to far past them. As the road bent away in the opposite direction, no glimpse of a cottage corner would betray their presence either, and I stopped dead in my tracks.

“Holmes! How did Mrs. Bewden learn of that cottage? How did she even know it was for rent? It can’t be seen from the lane, so who told her of it?”

“Bravo, Watson. While you were searching the lean-to I asked and was told that Mrs. Pentree wondered the same thing. She said she hadn’t liked to ask, but she supposed some former tenant, or someone who heard of the cottage. ‘People do talk,’ she said.”

I laughed. “They do, and news of a nice little cottage like that, private from everyone, could well be passed on by someone who went there after they married.”

Holmes looked back again before starting to walk on. “That may be so, Watson, but it is one more mystery. Why would one who was newly married confide in Mrs. Bewden, who was in her sixties? From what we know of her she has no young friends. Mr. Hewitt said plainly that all those she knows, including her acquaintances, are similar to her in age.”

I shrugged. “That is easily explained. She has daughters. Perhaps one of their friends told them of the place, and the daughter told her mother. Or one of her friends or acquaintances knew of it. When Mrs. Bewden decided to leave Bartlett for a while and take a holiday, she bethought herself of the cottage described and went there. She could guess that being out of season it would be available. And in any case, with it not being the season, there would be other such places if that one were already occupied.”

“That is sense, Watson,” my friend said slowly. “Yet the daughter who told her could not have been our client, who knew no reason why her mother would go to Cornwall, where she had never been and where she knew no one. If a daughter told her, it can only have been Miss Heather, and why then did she not tell her sister where their mother had gone?”

I shrugged again. “Maybe it amused her to worry Miss Dorothy. From what Hewitt said I would think her to be of that character—if he spoke the truth.” My friend glanced at me but did not speak, and after a pause, I continued. “That isn’t all, Holmes. What about the amount the sister is spending? On what is it being spent? You spoke of Paris in connection with the mother’s absence, but what if Miss Heather has something similar in mind and is accumulating funds towards it?”

We walked on in silence for some time while I pondered the thought. Now that I had advanced it, it seemed doubtful. Unless …. Could she have conceived a desire for marriage with someone virile but unsuitable? A divorced man, a waiter, or a shop-worker? Even a man who was much younger, a lad in his early twenties, perhaps? Mrs. Bewden was conservative, her friend and acquaintances were conservative—and church-goers. How would Miss Heather’s mother and those she knew react to such a prospective match? The more so as they could do nothing about it. Both daughters were of age and both had independent means, but public opinion could be a force to be reckoned with. And who better to mobilize that than an outraged mother?

We strolled upstairs while I offered this suggestion to Holmes, who sat on our reaching the suite, while I closed the door and turned to hear his opinion.

“It is a theory, Watson. Again, I do not deny its possibility. But if the lady had conceived such a passion, why would she not simply transfer her funds to a different branch of the bank, buy a house in another town, and move there with her paramour? Of course, it could be that she does not wish to make a complete break with her mother, whose estate is considerable, yet there was no hint of this from our client. I do not think either mother or sister the type to say nothing had such an event been contemplated.”

I agreed. “But what if the prospective marriage was one that would be looked at so askance by everyone that the mother did not mention it, even to Miss Dorothy, in case rumor should get about? A penniless younger man deemed a fortune-hunter? A divorced man of poor
reputation?”

“Such a thing might be reason for the daughter to withdraw monies to which she was not entitled, relying upon her mother’s desire for respectability, Watson. It is not a reason why the mother would rush off to holiday in Cornwall and there disappear. It is now eight weeks since she came here. She has withdrawn funds only once, and judging the amount she had in hand exhausted by now, I would ask on what she is living, as well as where? None of that is explained by a daughter’s putative misalliance.”

I had to admit that this was true, and when dinner arrived, I devoured it quickly, all the while wondering at the vagaries of families and those within them. Holmes went out briefly just before our food arrived and I did not discover until late that evening to whom he had spoken.

That was explained by the arrival of Edward Symonds, who made a report. “I asked everywhere, sir. I know the omnibus driver, and he’s certain she was never on it. Milk train is always met by stationmaster, and he said the same. I was born here, and I know who comes and goes. No one gave a ride to any lady of that description, nor anyone at all carrying a case. I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t find how she left Lanivell.”

“Not your fault,” Holmes assured the lad. “Thank you for trying.”

I heard the clink of coins, the lad’s muttered ‘thank you,’ and he was gone, leaving me to think the more.

5

I went to bed early that night and woke at three after a dream in which Mrs. Bewden, dressed all in brown, continually changed her shoes while complaining that she did not like cats. I recounted it to Holmes over breakfast and he was amused.

“Insight into a person’s character, Watson, is always useful. It is true that Mrs. Bewden does seem determined to carry one handbag and one only, and that her gloves and shoes should match. I am unsure where you may have gained the impression that she does not like cats, however.”

“Nor I,” I agreed. “Most likely it came from all the talk of that giant cat on Bodmin Moor. But it’s of no matter, it was a dream. We need to consider reality.”

“Yes,” Holmes agreed. “I think we have done all we can here for the moment. There is a train to London in two hours, and we should be on it.”

“And once in London?” I asked.

Holmes hauled out his pocket watch and studied it. “We won’t be in London until late evening. I suggest that we stay in Baker Street for the night, and in the morning go on to Bartlett again. I wish to see Onley, and talk to both Miss Dorothy and to her sister. I also want a word with Hewitt. Do you care to accompany me still, Watson?”

Since Dr. Clower agreed to act as locum for a week I was able to indicate my entire willingness, and so in two hours we boarded the train and soon were on the way towards London. We arrived there well after dark, took a taxi to Baker Street, and it was with a deep sense of relief that I tumbled into my own bed that night and slept the sleep of the exhausted.

* * *

Morning brought a hearty breakfast before we set out on our travels again. We reached Bartlett shortly before noon, and Holmes made a suggestion as we alighted from the train.

“Let us lunch now. I would like to see Hewitt before anyone else, and he is right here.”

“You sound as if you have something particular to ask him, Holmes.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

He said no more and I did not ask. I would learn soon enough, and besides, I was hungry.

We found a pleasant café only a street away from Hewitt’s business. An appetizing lunch followed, and once we were replete I sat back with a final cup of tea and mused.

“I wonder if we will find Miss Heather home. If she is, will she be prepared to speak to us? I gained the impression from Hewitt and her sister that the lady is a law unto herself. She is just as likely to show us the door.”

“I think not, Watson. If she is innocent she will by now be genuinely concerned as to her mother’s whereabouts. If she is involved in some way, she will wish to appear innocent. In either case, she will talk to us and do her best to help our inquiries, or seem as if she is doing so.” He placed his empty cup on the table and rose. “Let us go and see Hewitt now.” He paid the bill and led down the street in long strides, while I hastened after him.

Hewitt was in his office and eager to speak with us, asking questions as he pulled out chairs, invited us to sit, and offered refreshment.

“Did you find Mrs. Bewden? Was she in the town? Is she returning to Bartlett? I saw Miss Dorothy yesterday and she said she was worried, for she had heard nothing from her mother nor from you. Is there any sort of news?”

Holmes sat and held up a hand. “If you will, Mr. Hewitt. Listen and I shall inform you of our progress, slight as it is,” he added.

Hewitt sat down, falling silent, and composed himself attentively.

Holmes then related our discoveries. “So far, we know that Mrs. Bewden travelled to Lanivell. She stayed there for a week in a rented cottage. After that she was said to be moving on to the town of Bodmin, yet we could find no indication she had done so. We intend to return and make further inquiries, but I deemed it necessary to speak to you, Miss Dorothy, and her sister first. We may also wish to speak to the lawyer responsible for the Bewden family affairs.”

Hewitt’s eyebrows went up. “I made a close examination of certain documents at the time I purchased my share in their business. If I can tell you anything, I am prepared to do so.”

Holmes fell briefly silent before speaking. “Please understand,” he began, “that I ask such questions because I am concerned for Mrs.
Bewden. Do not assume anything from what I ask.” On Hewitt’s assurance that he would not, he continued. “I understand that Latimer Bewden spit his estate into three portions. His wife received the business, and a third of all other assets, save the property. The other two thirds went to his daughters?”

Hewitt nodded.

“The portions they received are in trusts,” Holmes continued. “Miss Dorothy has the disposal of hers by will, but Miss Heather does not.” Again Hewitt nodded. “The money received, either from the sale of the business or part of it, and any on-going profits received, go into a trust from which is paid all upkeep for the property. Mrs. Bewden may draw against this to pay said upkeep, wages, and maintenance, and she has the right to draw against any surplus funds once those items are paid.”

“All that is correct,” Hewitt confirmed. “She is sensibly frugal. That is, she does not fritter away such monies, but allows them to accumulate. Once they are at a certain level she uses the amount saved to accomplish a major renovation. For instance, three years ago she had sufficient monies saved to re-paint Onley. She gave that work to a new business in Bartlett and I know they were grateful. They did an excellent job and it resulted in further offers of work, so they prospered.”

“Why did she go to a new business?” I queried.

“The owner is the nephew of Mrs. Chisholm, her housekeeper,” Hewitt explained. “I do not think the Chisholms actually requested it, but I imagine they did mention that he had begun such an enterprise, and she decided to give the man a commission and see how it went.”

“And it went well?” I asked.

He looked at me. “It did. The lady was very pleased with the work done. She spoke of it several times, always approvingly and, or so I think, mentioned to a number of people in the town that she was delighted with the result.” He turned to Holmes. “Miss Dorothy said in view of that, and also because her mother never expressed dissatisfaction with the Chisholms, she would not countenance their dismissal. She did not believe it was what her mother wished.” He nodded abruptly. “She has stuck to that, and I believe her sister is not at all happy to be so firmly gainsaid.”

“I see. While you were involved in terms and conditions of the purchase of a major portion of this business, did you ever hear how the Onley property was to be disposed upon Mrs. Bewden’s death?”

Hewitt stared at us. “Sits the wind in that quarter, then?”

“Do not leap to conclusions, sir. But answer me if you will and can,” Holmes said.

“I both can and will. Mrs. Bewden has the property for her lifetime and the trust that supports it, into which Mrs. Bewden’s share of this business’s profits is paid. The monies she received for the sixty percent I purchased are in an account, and the interest goes into the trust as well. On her death, Miss Heather receives one half of the entire trust including the monies paid for that sixty percent, but there are conditions. She may not dispose of any share of the business without agreement from anyone else who holds a share, supposing that at his wife’s death shares are still held by any member of his immediate family …”

“Would that apply to you, although you purchased your share after his death?” Holmes demanded.

“It would. He knew his widow would not be able to run the business herself and made allowances. The other half of the trust is left to Miss Dorothy.” He paused to make sure we understood the importance of what he next said. “The property of Onley goes to her exclusively and as it stands, including all contents, upon her mother’s death.”

I stared. “To her? There are no caveats, no codicils?”

“None. She may sell it, live in it, rent it out, or tear it down and sell the land.”

I whistled softly. “And did you ever receive any indication how Miss Heather felt about that?”

“I am not sure she knows. I am aware because of an error made by their lawyer. He inadvertently left a copy of the will with other business papers I was permitted to read. But the Bewden lawyer is old-fashioned. I think that when Latimer Bewden died he took the widow aside and told her, and later read the portion of the will which dealt with the disposal of the business and the trusts for the property upkeep, and those that went to his daughters.”

“So you think it unlikely that either of the daughters is aware that Miss Dorothy inherits Onley?”

“I do,” Hewitt agreed. “I had never heard either of them say or even indicate they had such knowledge.”

I thought to myself that women could be surprisingly devious, and even the most voluble could keep silent on something where it paid her to do so. Not that such was a peculiarity of her gender, for men could be equally so. It was just that with men it was expected, with women it usually was not.

Holmes stirred from his consideration of the information. “Miss Dorothy receives one half of the main trust, and Onley. Was there any indication that Miss Heather was left other items or monies to compensate her for the loss?”

“No,” Hewitt said and fell silent.

“And Miss Dorothy may dispose not only of that portion of her
inheritance as she wishes, but also of the trust left to her on her father’s death. While her sister receives neither compensation for the loss, nor the right to dispose as she wishes of her own trust upon her death?”

“That was what the papers I saw indicated.”

“Interesting,” Holmes said thoughtfully.

We thanked Hewitt for what he told us, and on being informed that Miss Dorothy was certain to be at home at this time, we made polite farewells and left the office.

Once on the street I halted Holmes with a hand upon his sleeve and spoke quietly.

“There’s something amiss here. One would almost suppose that Latimer Bewden either did not trust Miss Heather to deal sensibly with such sums, or knew something to her detriment.”

“Quite so, Watson. It may only be that he knew she held a mental ascendancy over her mother and wished to make sure the estate would be fairly divided. But that ascendancy remained. No, no matter what Hewitt believes, it is my belief that Mrs. Bewden would have let that information slip to her elder daughter. The question is whether or no she told Miss Dorothy. Let us now go there and ask.”

The taxi ride was a charming one through fields and small copses that bordered the road. We turned into a drive that led down a quarter-mile avenue between oak trees, revealing a conventionally white house, trimmed with a red and brown that were not quite so conservative. Nor was the house’s shape traditional for its era.

It was a single block without wings, and from the appearance of the gardens around it, there never had been more than the original rectangle. I later discovered it possessed four floors, the lowest being a small range of cellars for storage. The main door opened into a pleasant reception area, at the rear of which a carved, polished, balustrade-flanked staircase led upwards. From the entrance hall a large drawing-room opened, with a smaller conservatory with French doors at each end opening onto a wide, long, flagstone terrace. The rest of the ground floor consisted of a magnificent library, whose French doors also opened onto the terrace, a warren of rooms originally meant for upper-level servants, and a small study.

The next two floors were bedrooms and small suites for the family or esteemed guests, while the attics, originally the preserve of maids, were unused. It ended up used for storage of unwanted items, furniture damaged but repairable, and clothing long out of fashion but made from expensive materials and hence saved to be reworked into more modern garments when someone had time or inclination.

We stepped out onto the neatly raked gravel drive, the taxi-driver received his fare and departed, and we regarded the house. Holmes looked off to one side and my gaze followed his.

“The Chisholms’ cottage,” he commented.

That too was in good condition, with an extensive vegetable garden extending from either side of the rear of the building. There were fruit trees, too, a considerable number, and I recognized plum, pear, apple, and peach and, further along, walnut trees. I could also see a berry-house in the distance and recalled that it was part of the agreement with the Chisholms that they could sell surplus fruit, vegetables and, presumably, nuts. With the array I saw, they must do well from that agreement.

Holmes went forward, trod up the front-door steps, raised and plied the knocker. It boomed hollowly and I started.

“Good heavens, it sounds like some Gothic novel.”

“Perhaps, so, but I do not anticipate any of Mr. Stoker’s creations,” Holmes answered as we heard the door handle turned from within. In which he was right, for an altogether more attractive spectacle opened the door and addressed us.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson! Oh, it is good to see you. You have news? Please come in, come in at once.”

Miss Dorothy ushered us in, closed the door behind us and led us into the drawing-room where she indicated we should sit. Once we had all done so, she pulled a bell rope and asked for afternoon tea from the smiling, elderly lady who answered its summons. Two cats strolled into the room, going at once to Holmes and Miss Dorothy. One—a red tabby with white markings—sprang into his lap. The other, a dark tabby, leaped onto the sofa beside the woman, and both purred at the attention they received.

We chatted of trivia, and I could see her sternly suppressing a desire to demand information until the trolley arrived and Mrs. Chisholm, as I assumed the servant to be, departed. Then, with filled plates and teacups to hand, Miss Dorothy fixed her anxious gaze on us and waited.

Once again Holmes recounted our travels and discoveries. He concluded with a question. “Do you know who inherits Onley on your mother’s death?”

She shook her head slowly. “Not to say know. I have always assumed that father left it between my sister and me. Perhaps we have a right to live here for our lifetimes, after which it must be sold and the price divided between our estates. Or perhaps father left it to whichever of us married and had children. And if we both did so, then to Heather, as the eldest.”

“And your trusts?” Holmes asked, making no comment on her reply.

“I can dispose of mine by will, Heather’s trust goes to …” Her face showed red across the cheekbones. “To a distant relative.”

As I expected, Holmes noticed that telltale flush. “A distant relative?”

It took a few minutes, but he persuaded her to speak.

“Her name is Minette. She is the daughter of my father’s uncle. He was a ne’er-do-well who married a Frenchwoman—although it was not a marriage, as we later discovered. Minette is their daughter. She has never married, and her health is failing. My father did not think she should suffer for the sins of her father. After all she is family, and on Heather’s death she will receive the ongoing interest from the trust, with right to use up to half the capital to buy herself a home, and with right of disposal of the trust by will upon her death.”

She did not seem to mind, but I suspected Miss Heather felt very differently. She could not dispose of her trust monies as she wished, could not even will it away, but this illegitimate foreign relative had rights she did not? And yet, was I misjudging the lady? I wondered how she would respond to these same questions, something I was about to discover.

A door slammed and footsteps echoed across the polished floor of the entrance hall. A figure appeared in the drawing-room doorway and a forceful voice demanded to know who we were, while blue eyes summed us up as people of no importance.

The cats slipped quietly from the room, and I did not blame them.

I must say that on first appearance I was not impressed by Miss Heather Bewden, an impression that remained as long as I knew her. Her voice was neither harsh nor shrill, yet seemed to drill into your head. It had an intensity that was jarring, and an arrogance that irritated. It suggested the speaker knows more and best, and is superior to any listener.

In countenance she was similar to her sister, although her face was more angular, but with the same clear skin and blue eyes. She was slender rather than buxom, however, and her clothing was of more expensive material, and more in fashion—in fact, rather over-so.

Behind her came a dog, an attractive creature that came to me when I snapped my fingers. I scratched around his neck and throat and he fawned happily until Miss Heather spoke.

“Robbie, come here, sir!” He went cringing to where she had seated herself and sat by her ankles. She stared rudely at us. “Well, who are you and what are you doing in my house?”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Your mother’s house, surely? We are here at the invitation of your sister.”

She turned on Miss Dorothy like a fury. “Who are they? How dare you invite strangers into the house! Tell them to leave at once.”

Before either woman could speak again, Holmes coughed. Both
focused on him. “There is talk, Miss Bewden. Your mother has been gone from home for two months and many are asking what has become of her.”

“She is on holiday in Cornwall. I suppose a lady may have a holiday if she wishes. She will return home when she wants to, and besides, what business is it of yours?”

“Business, Miss Bewden. A matter of business.”

I listened to his explanation and managed to suppress my amusement as he altered the original tale he intended to tell.

“My colleague and I are interested on obtaining shares in a prosperous business of modest size. We were directed to Mr. Hewitt, who explained that he does not wish to part with his share, but that your mother owns some forty percent. We decided to address her on the subject.”

Miss Heather smiled, an expression that reminded me of nothing so much as a bull terrier that espies a slow rabbit. “I have my mother’s letter of authority. Should you be willing to offer a suitable price, I will listen.”

Holmes shook his head, conveying a sort of stuffy propriety. “Dear me, no, that would not be legal. We would have to have her sign in person before monies or shares could be transferred. Where is your mother?”

“She is at present on holiday in Cornwall,” was the reply, said with composure. That calmness vanished when next Holmes spoke.

“She is not, madam. We were told that, and travelled to Cornwall to discuss this possible transaction with her. It is true that for a brief period she was staying in a small village there, but after a week she left secretly, under cover of darkness, and nothing has been seen or heard of her since. Were the lady any relative of mine I would have long since become anxious. How is it that you have not?”

Miss Heather opened her mouth, shut it again, and then spluttered a diatribe so furious we could hardly understand her words. In order, we heard that we were scoundrels, liars, traducers, that a woman had a right to go on holiday, that she would bring an action for slander against us, and finally that we should leave at once before she called the police to have us put out and then given in charge.

Holmes bowed from his chair. “For what, madam? We have said that your mother has vanished, that she has been gone for two months and that no one knows where she is. We have said that we would be interested in purchasing a share in her business, and would ask for a decision on our offer, and none of that is slanderous. In fact, your reaction makes me curious—as it may make the police.”

We received another broadside and Holmes shook his head as he stood. “I find it strange that you do not know where your mother is. Or do you?”

“Yes, yes. I had a letter from her to say she was in Bodmin.”

“At what address?”

“She rented a cottage there, 29 Salisbury Close. Go there and see if she will receive you. Now get out, go away, and never return. You disgust me with your insinuations!”

I thought rather that it was fear I saw in her eyes, and I knew Holmes recognized it as well. I joined him and we walked to the drawing-room doorway. Once there, Holmes turned and looked at the agitated woman.

“We will find your mother, madam, and then we shall see you again.”

Her answer was a glare before she turned her back on us, ostensibly to adjust a picture on the wall—an attractive landscape, I observed. Miss Dorothy sighed and led us to the front door. With an eye to her sister as she left the drawing-room, she shook our hands warmly in turn.

“One moment and I shall ring for a taxi to take your back to Bartlett. And if you will, meet me at the café by Mr. Hewitt’s business. I’d like to discuss this,” was her low-voiced request.

“In an hour,” Holmes said quietly. “And if you can bring a list of your mother’s jewelry and describe the case in which she carried it, that could be of use.”

* * *

Miss Dorothy was there within that time and dropped wearily into the café chair, passing over a sheaf of paper I saw to be the jewelry list.

“My sister is not at all pleased by your visit, and I have heard too much on that subject. I, however, am glad of it since you achieved more information that I have hitherto been able to acquire. It seems I may have been panicking indeed, if my mother is so easily found.” Her words suggested confidence, but her face, as she gazed at Holmes, betrayed greater worry. “You do think Mother is at this Salisbury Close?”

“I cannot say until we have been there,” Holmes said. “The landlady in Lanivell, Mrs. Pentree, thought that Bodmin was your mother’s destination, and because of that we inquired. Yet we were long enough in Lanivell to discover that no one admits to having taken your mother on to anywhere at all.”

“How did my mother leave the cottage she rented?”

Holmes described the circumstance and I saw the fear deepen in her daughter’s eyes.

“Then no one saw her leave, and you could find no vehicle in which she went away. Yet my mother and all her possession are gone, and this is confirmed in a letter Heather says she received. I saw no letter, nor did she ever mention it to me before.”

She shivered abruptly. “And you asked about the case for her jewelry. It is pigskin. She normally travels with it inside her usual case, and both have good strong locks. But I cannot conceive why she would take her jewels on a country holiday. She rarely takes much of what she has anywhere at all. It does not make sense, and I am becoming greatly afraid for her. Please, Mr. Holmes, find my mother!”

She clutched her teaspoon in a desperate grip, and I reached over and gently eased it from her fingers. “Don’t worry, my dear. Holmes will find her, won’t you, Holmes?”

“Dead or alive,” my friend said, a trifle callously, but then Holmes was always one to speak unvarnished truth.

“But we shall hope it is alive,” I added to soften that comment. “We must return to London now, for tomorrow we set out for Cornwall again, and I shall hope to have news for you on our return.”

We left her looking after us, her face pale as all the possibilities implicit in his ‘dead or alive’ struck home. I think that up to that time her fears had been nebulous. Now, in three simple words she saw the possible shape of them, and for the first time she understood what might lie at the end of the road she now travelled.

We caught our train and returned to London. On the journey Holmes read the jewelry list, passing each page to me as he finished. I was surprised at the length of the list, I readily admit. Latimer Bewden must have been a fond husband. The insurance value was substantial, but Miss Dorothy’s protest was valid. Why would a woman take such valuable jewelry—and so much of it—on a holiday where she planned to live in a rented cottage, and go nowhere that required such splendor? I could not make it out.

6

I was weary to my bones when I lay in my own bed. Yet the thrill of the chase drove me on. I would rise in the morning to take up the trail again, and with luck, we would find our quarry at 29 Salisbury Close, Bodmin.

Breakfast was early enough for us to catch the train down to Cornwall once more, and when we alighted at Bodmin I looked around eagerly, almost hoping to see Mrs. Bewden standing there to welcome us. There was no such thing, of course, only a taxi-driver eager to take us anywhere we wanted, at holiday-maker prices.

Holmes asked for a hotel that did not over-charge, where rooms were comfortable and the food edible. One lay towards the moor side, and
after paying off the driver, being escorted to our room and ordering dinner, I reproached my friend mildly.

“Should we not rather have gone directly to seek out Mrs. Bewden?”

“No,” Holmes said calmly. “It is now almost nine, and it is possible that the household is in bed. If there is no one at that address we will have to ask about, and people are less likely to be cooperative at that hour. We shall enjoy supper and a good night’s sleep, and begin after breakfast tomorrow.”

* * *

We walked into the street, well rested and well fed, some twelve hours later, having gained clear directions from the hotel porter. Salisbury Close was a bare ten minutes’ walk away, closer still to the moor’s edge. Once we arrived we saw a short, curved thoroughfare lined with small cottages on one side only, the other side open to the moor. None of the cottages would have more than two bedrooms, and when we walked past and turned down an adjacent street to study the back yards, we could see that several had a modern bathroom built onto the back.

“I think these may have originally been miner’s cottages,” Holmes said thoughtfully, while counting the number of new bathrooms. “People renting while on holiday expect a certain standard.”

I, too, had identified what would be the back of number twenty-nine and pointed. “Look, three of those have bathrooms: numbers twenty-eight, twenty-nine, and thirty. That may not be good. People on holiday take a lot less notice of those who live by them, and one or both of the cottages may be empty anyway.”

“Worse yet,” Holmes pointed out as we began to walk back to Salisbury Close, “it is now almost two months since Mrs. Bewden may have been there, and the occupants of the flanking cottages will have come and gone long since.” And so it proved.

There was no answer to our knocking at any of the three doors. And when we tried further down the Close, we were directed to a Mr. Bargate, several streets away. He, it transpired, owned all three of the cottages and while cooperative, knew little.

“Aye, end one was my grandma’s, left to me direct. Her husband were a foreman in t’ mine and she did laundry. They scrimped half their lives to buy the cottage and she didn’t want it to go out a’ the family. Other two cottages I bought when I made a bit o’ money. They was in bad condition, but I fixed them up and I built on the bathrooms myself, I did. People as comes on holiday likes that and I keeps the places all nice.”

Something we knew to be true from our own observations.

He continued. “Yes, I rented to a Mrs. Bewden. She still have another week to run. Paid up in advance she did, for two months. Not there? Well, were she expecting you? She weren’t? Well, you can’t expect to find her sat waiting there then, can you? What were she like? I don’t know. Why, if she’s known to you don’t you know what she looks like?”

His tone changed when we explained some of the circumstances. “No, I haven’t seen her since she got here and paid me. Well, truth be told, I didn’t see her then. Someone knocked on my door and slipped an envelope through the letter slot. Had a note saying it were Mrs. Bewden arrived and here was the rent for the cottage as agreed. What? No, I had a letter saying she were coming over from Lanivell. Said to write back there if I couldn’t accommodate her.” He gave the address at which we knew Mrs. Bewden had previously stayed.

“So you never saw the lady. How was she as a tenant?” Holmes inquired.

“Easy customer. Not like some, always asking for sommat. It’s ‘Mr. Bargate, the tap’s dripping,’ ‘Mr. Bargate, we’re out of milk,’ ‘Mr.
Bargate, can you tell us where to buy firewood?’” He sighed, a much put-upon landlord. “I tells them when they get here, that right there on the table there’s a list of places to buy what they need and a map showing where they is. So they come inside, dump all their gear on the table atop of the list and such, then when they move them they toss the list and map I done so careful into some cupboard or another, or use them to light a fire. Then they come bleating to me about how they’re all out of sommat or another and don’t know where to buy nothing.”

“Very annoying,” Holmes agreed. “But Mrs. Bewden didn’t do that?”

“No, not never.” He scowled. “Here, you don’t think something
really could have happened to her? Mebbe you’re right and I should take a look at the place. You come along o’ me, and we’ll go now.”

We walked back to the Close. Bargate strode down the path to the door, knocked several times loudly and, receiving no answer, produced a large, clumsy key and opened the door. A gust of stale air redolent with the smell of alcohol poured out.

“Phew!” Bargate said. “Lady must be a drinker.”

I looked at my friend. It was most unlikely. Mrs. Bewden had given no signs of it before, or none that anyone we talked to about her had mentioned. She was a church-goer, and although we both knew secret drinkers before, no signs of that vice were evident in any of what we had heard.

Holmes went into the bedroom and called my name sharply. I hastened to join him, and stood there in the doorway, staring at the disorder.

“Holmes?”

“She has not been here for some considerable time,” was his response. “Nor do I believe this confusion was her doing.”

I hoped not, for Miss Dorothy’s sake. The bedroom was in complete disarray, with a closed and locked suitcase on top of a chest of drawers, clothing spilling out of the drawers. Shoes lay jumbled in a small heap by the bed, while empty bottles—I counted sixteen—stood on windowsills and other flat surfaces. The bedclothes had been pulled back, not as one might do to air the bed, but as if someone had climbed out of it and not yet returned. And on the bedside table, there stood a handbag.

I reached to take it up, but my friend was before me. “Holmes, isn’t that …?”

He opened it carefully, a handkerchief between his fingers and the silver clasp. His hand went in and came out, holding something.

“Yes, Watson, this is Mrs. Bewden’s handbag. See here.”

He held an envelope addressed to the lady. He removed the letter within, unfolded it carefully, and read. Then he passed it to me.

I will not particularize, but it was from someone we had never heard referred to thus far. There was only the Christian name and no address, with the postmark so smeared we could not make out any detail of the town’s name. It was commonplace, the sort of brief letter that might be written to any woman of Mrs. Bewden’s age and class, by someone who was no more than an acquaintance. It talked of shopping, of a bargain in a new dress, and of how the cat had caught a large rat.

I read it again, but could make out no useful information. One thought struck me. “Holmes, how is it this person knew where to address her letter? Your client did not know. If Miss Heather was the source, why would she tell a mere acquaintance where to find her mother, and not tell her sister?”

“Spite, Watson. She will say if we ask her that she blamed her sister for their mother’s ill-health, and that her mother had not wanted Miss Dorothy to know where she was. That is not the item about the letter which catches my attention.” His index finger silently indicated the date and I understood.

“Of course. The date is only ten days ago. Supposing this took three or four days to reach the recipient, it must have been opened less than a week since. Holmes, do you see what this means? It shows that Mrs. Bewden was alive and well within the past week.”

“I see what it suggests, Watson.”

“But isn’t that good news?”

“Excellent news, if true. Let us go and see what Mr. Bargate may have discovered.”

What that good man found was that none of the kindling or paper from the small woodshed had been used, and that it was heavily coated with dust. Holmes ran a finger over the kitchen stove top as we returned from the yard, and studied the result with a raised eyebrow.

I was surprised. “That’s a lot of dirt for a week.”

“That is far more than a week’s grime, Watson. I would put it at many weeks’ worth, unless …” He turned to the landlord. “Mr. Bargate, is this Close exceptionally dusty? Does dirt accumulate here quickly?”

But Mr. Bargate was adamant on that. “No, sir, it does not. My granny kept this place spotless always, and I remember her saying as it was moorland air did some of her housekeeping. She reckoned as how she took up less dust here than when she and my grandpa lived closer into town. She did love this place, she said she could breathe here, and with less dust there were less work.”

There was an unmistakable ring of truth and memory in that and Holmes asked no more on the subject. “Look at the bottles, please, Mr. Bargate, and tell me if you can where they may have been purchased.”

That he could do easily, he said. “They’re from The Lamp. ’Tis only a step from here. Do you want to go there?”

Holmes said we did, and Mr. Bargate led the way. A street over and two blocks further on we came to a rather shabby hotel with a faded sign outside, informing us that it was the licensed premises of The Miner’s Lamp, with a very bad painting of a miner holding up a lantern.

I feared we would get nothing here; any hotel sees many customers, and in places such as this there is an innate clannishness that often precludes an outsider from being told anything at all. Not from guilt, but from sheer disinclination to tell someone not of their community information about anyone who may be of that brotherhood. It turned out to be fortunate that Mr. Bargate brought us. He it was who asked the initial question and the landlord, a man who addressed him as Jack and was addressed in turn as Bill, was at once helpful.

“Aye, lady as was renting one of your cottages? Yes, she came here, bought brandy, bottles of it.” His grin revealed a missing tooth. “If she were drinking all that alone she’d be in a right old state by now. She had more’n a dozen bottles. Not bad brandy mind, not the really good stuff, but fair quality. When?” He considered that question. “Three times she came. First time would be mebbe seven, eight weeks gone. Then she came about three weeks after that, and agin a week or so past.”

Holmes took over at that point in a series of questions and answers. “Can you describe the lady?”

The landlord could and did, a clear word portrait. One matching those received in Lanivell, down to the heavy veil, an accessory that amused the landlord considerably.

“What time of the day did she come?”

The landlord nodded. “Aye you’ve got her, sir. She allus come quite late, well after dark, like she’d be ashamed to be seen at a place like this. I reckoned her one of them secret drinkers. All righteous in the congregation, but fond of a tipple where the neighbors can’t see them. That’s why she bought brandy, o’ course.”

“Why?” I asked, and the landlord grinned more widely.

“A’cos it’s what you give people as is poorly. If one of them hypocrites drink brandy, even by t’ bottle, they can tell themselves that it’s medicine, see?”

I saw, and Holmes resumed his questioning.

“How many bottles of brandy did she buy each time?”

“First time it were a fair number, I do recollect. I can’t be certain, but I’d say it could have been six or seven, mebbe eight. Next time,” he added, “it may have been five, I disremember exactly, but the last time, it were only two, and I recall thinking as she must be one of them drinkers that does it now and again, soaks themselves, then don’t drink at all for months.” He glanced at Mr. Bargate. “Like old Tom Polworth, Jack. You remembers him.”

“Aye. He were fine most times, wouldn’t touch a drop, but about twice a year he drank fit to beat the band, a right spree. Roaring in the street once he got real bad, until the police’d shut him up for the night. Then he’d be right again. He were that good at his job, his boss put up with it, called it Tom’s holidays, and writ it down that way.”

Holmes nodded. “And you thought this lady was like that?”

The landlord nodded. “I thought mebbe she’d come down here to be private, like. So’s no one where she come from’d know.”

“You knew she wasn’t Cornish?”

The landlord eyed us both scornfully. “I did. Nay, she weren’t Cornish, nor she wasn’t a toff neither. If’n I had to guess I’d say she were wife to a shopkeeper or businessman. Man in a good way o’ things, but not one of them rich ones. Leastways she paid with no arguing, and all that brandy weren’t cheap. Nice enough too, allus said please and thank you like a lady should.”

“But you didn’t like her for all that,” Holmes said shrewdly.

“Nay,” the man said slowly and shrugged. “Can’t say why, I just didn’t.”

We could get no more useful information from him and Holmes slipped a couple of coins into our informant’s hand, at which he looked pleased.

Bargate walked back with us as far as the cottages, and expressed his intention of leaving the lady’s property where it was until her time was up. “She may come back, sirs. There’s nothing to say she won’t and the rent be paid for another week yet. If she do come back and find I’ve packed up all her stuff she mayn’t be best pleased. Nay, I’ll leave her things be, that’s best. But the minute the rent is done I’ll have her case unlocked, everything into it, and case held safe over my place to be called for.”

Holmes nodded. “That is sensible, Mr. Bargate. Here is my card. I would ask that if the lady does not return, you let me know and touch nothing. Do so and I will pay a further week’s rent until I can come down and go through her property. Once that is done I will return the case to her family.”

Bargate shook his head. “Nay, sir, begging your pardon. You bring one of her family down here and I’ll hand it over to them. If she don’t come back I don’t mind you looking through things, but I’m not having her people saying as her case were taken and I allowed it. You bring someone as can show they’re kin and I’ll hand it over.”

“I can and will do that, Mr. Bargate. You have my card. Please let me know whether the lady returns or does not, and I will come down, bringing her daughter.”

We parted, Bargate going to one of the other cottages—‘another dripping tap,’ he said—and we to walk back to the hotel in which we intended to stay a second night. As we walked I commented on Miss Heather and my suspicions, but my friend shook his head.

“You may be right, Watson. However, there is this. What ill deeds do we know her to have committed? So far everything said of her has been gossip and innuendo without real evidence. People do not like her forthright manner, her decisiveness. Some may resent her independence of manner and finances. Nor is Mr. Hewitt to be overlooked. The chance of marrying a well-to-do woman is nothing at which to sneer, and what if he is involved? He may have been quietly stealing from the company and Mrs. Bewden discovered it.”

“He would need an accomplice,” I said doubtfully.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“He was very decided against Miss Dorothy,” Holmes murmured and I stared before understanding.

“‘Methinks he doth protest too much,’” I mis-quoted and Holmes nodded.

“One must keep all possibilities in mind. I do not say that these things are so, only that there should be no rush to judgment.”

* * *

The day after, we made further inquiries. To my bewilderment, once more we could find no one who had seen Mrs. Bewden. No taxi driver had her as a passenger, no shopkeeper could recall serving her, and no one in the other cottages with regular inhabitants could recall ever having seen her either passing down the street, or about the cottage.

The following day we packed, breakfasted early, and took the train back to London, spent a night in our own beds, and caught the train to Bartlett next day. On the way I mentioned the locked case.

“A pity he would not allow you to open that. I suppose her jewelry is inside.”

“So we must hope.”

“You think that the jewelry may have been stolen?”

“I think that if it is not in her case, then things could be black for the lady, but let us not jump to conclusions.”

Once in Bartlett we went straight to Charles Hewitt’s place of business. On his receiving us hopefully, we sat and Holmes recounted our latest discoveries. Hewitt evinced more and more vocal disbelief as that report proceeded, and when we were done he exploded.

“I do not believe it! I cannot believe it! It is all a farrago of lies. Mrs. Bewden does not drink, and certainly not to such excess as this man described.”

Holmes was on to that partial agreement like a terrier after a rat. “But she does drink?”

Hewitt promptly rejected the suggestion in its entirety. “Look, Mr. Holmes. I daresay almost every home in the country has a half-bottle of brandy in case of accident or someone fainting. Most of them are covered in dust with a dose or two gone and that’s it. If you look in the Bewden kitchen you’d be likely to find one there, as well. But drink, as you mean it: no. They may have a small bottle of cooking brandy for the plum pudding at Christmas, but I’d wager if you ask, both daughters will tell you that no drop of brandy ever passed their mother’s lips aside from a fainting spell or that pudding. And knowing her, I’d say she was likely to refuse it for either of those, as well.”

I delicately advanced the landlord’s theory: that having been unwell of late, Mrs. Bewden found brandy alleviated her symptoms and continued to partake. That idea was refuted, too.

“There are two problems with that theory, gentlemen. One is that the lady has been unwell for nearly a year. Why would she suddenly take to drink only a couple of months ago, rather than asking her doctor for a tonic or some medicine to ameliorate any distress? Then, too, if she had been drinking before she went on holiday, would she not have smelled of drink? Yet more than once in the past year I have stood or sat close enough to notice if that were present. Gentlemen, it never was.”

I looked at Holmes. “He makes sense. And someone who is not used to drink is unlikely to immediately drink for so long or so much. If she spent the past two months drinking sixteen full bottles of brandy we would most probably have found her laid across the bed unconscious, or even dead. A bout lasting that long, with the amount consumed, is more the mark of an old soak. Someone who, as the landlord said, makes a habit of drinking to excess a few times a year.”

Holmes eyed me. “So, Watson, how then do you explain the brandy in that cottage?”

“I can’t,” I said honestly. “However, I have to agree with Hewitt. If there have been no signs whatsoever that the lady drank, then the cottage does not fit a pattern.”

My friend appeared to fall into a deep study and I turned to Hewitt. “Do you have access to a vehicle? If possible I would like to go out to Onley.” At which point I temporarily digressed. “Why is it called that? Does it mean something, or was it the name of the first owner?”

Hewitt gave a crack of laughter. “No, it means ‘on a ley line.’ That’s why it is pronounced the way it is. It’s said that a ley line runs lengthwise through the land and right under the house. I was told by an old man who lives locally, that to build on a ley line can be lucky if, as he said, ‘You does it right and pleases them o’ the land as has power.’ The man who built Onley had a lot of ill-fortune, or so I heard, and I guess he wanted to change that.” He reverted to my previous question then.

“And I do indeed have a vehicle, and I am more than willing to drive you and Mr. Holmes out to Onley. Which of the two ladies do you wish to speak to? Miss Heather is away again, but Miss Dorothy will be home.”

Holmes came out of his thoughts with a start. “Miss Heather is away again, you say? Where, do you know?”

Hewitt nodded. “She has friends in Ashton and she goes to visit them quite often. She is rarely away for more than a day or two, but she does visit them regularly.”

“I see. You would be willing to drive us to Onley now?”

Hewitt looked a little taken aback. “Now? Yes, I suppose I can do so. Come with me.”

He led us to where a delivery van was parked and when we were settled in our seats, took the wheel and turned from the yard onto the road to Onley. We arrived there quickly since he was a good, if rather fast driver, and we alighted before the house.

Miss Dorothy came around the side of the building and appeared pleased to see us.

“I did not know you intended to visit today. I have been weeding and I am not dressed in my best.”

Hewitt smiled. “You look well to me. But Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson wanted to come out to Onley.”

“Then let us all go inside, and while I clean up, Mrs. Chisholm can bring morning tea.”

We entered the house and Miss Dorothy bustled off.

Holmes spoke in my ear as we entered the drawing-room.

“Ask for the necessary, and as soon as you hear Mrs. Chisholm
approaching, go to the kitchen and see if you can find any brandy.”

I obeyed resignedly. Hewitt directed me to a small room near the kitchen, and I waited until I heard the housekeeper pass, whereupon I exited and dived into the kitchen.

The kitchen was a large room, comfortably cluttered. I went at once to the larder where I opened the doors soundlessly and looked over the contents. Hewitt had been right. There were two small bottles of brandy. From the labels, the smaller of the two was of better quality, while the other was for cooking. The cooking-brandy bottle was half empty, an appropriate amount for last year’s Christmas pudding. The other was missing perhaps a tablespoon. Both bottles were dusty.

I shot back to the small room, from which I emerged as soon as I heard Mrs. Chisholm coming back to the kitchen. I returned to the drawing-room and nodded slightly to Holmes. Miss Dorothy drank tea and nibbled absentmindedly at a buttered scone, while Holmes related that we found where in Bodmin her mother stayed. I noticed he omitted all mention of brandy bottles.

Even so, his client was much concerned.

“I do not understand, Mr. Holmes. You say that my mother is still staying at this cottage at Bodmin? And all her things are present, but that the room is dirty and disordered. That simply is not my mother. She values cleanliness and order very highly. Come with me!”

She walked to the door, and all three of us followed in her wake. She led us to a vast, airy bedroom with a large wardrobe, a dressing-table, chest of drawers, and a wide double bed. The door to a small, neat bathroom stood near one corner, and much of the far wall was windows.

I saw at once what Miss Dorothy meant. That the room was clean may have meant little, for naturally the daughters would keep it so, but it was also tidy, things laid out in a way which suggested that this was their customary position. It is difficult to explain such an opinion, but I have found that where one is strongly impressed, that is most likely the truth.

Holmes studied the room. “How often have you dusted?”

Miss Dorothy blushed. “Not as often as I ought, I admit. I have been expecting Mother to return every day, and I have not had the room cleaned as thoroughly as I should.”

Holmes walked to the dressing table and picked up the set of hairbrush, mirror, and comb. He studied them briefly before replacing them. Saying nothing, he circled the room, now and again picking up another item and placing it back down again.

We watched this in silence. Once he was done he walked past us and headed back to the drawing-room. When we joined him and were seated, he spoke, addressing Miss Dorothy.

“In a week, the time paid for the rental of Mrs. Bewden’s Bodmin cottage will expire. She must then pay the owner further, or return to remove her possessions. Her suitcase was locked and no key was evident. The landlord, quite reasonably, would not permit me to force the lock, and I did not wish him to know that it might contain your mother’s jewelry. It may be that there is something inside that could further inform us of her whereabouts.”

“And you wish me to accompany you to Bodmin to receive her jewelry, her suitcase, and any other possessions so that you may examine them yourself?”

“That is so,” Holmes stated.

I winced. If Miss Dorothy saw the bottles and the state of that room, it would be a severe shock.

“I will be ready,” Miss Dorothy agreed. “But I hope and pray Mother will return to that cottage and we will see her again soon.”

“There is always hope,” I offered.

Holmes looked at her downcast expression. “There is one thing I would ask of you.” She looked up. “Say nothing of this to your sister. Do not tell her that we went to Bodmin or that we found the cottage. Do not tell her anything at all. If she asks, say that since she told you where your mother is, your mind is relieved of worry and that you are sure she will be home soon.”

“But that isn’t true?”

“It is true that your sister gave you an address, is it not? That we know your mother was there? That if she is well she should return shortly?”

Her tone was doubtful. “I suppose so.”

“Then leave it at that for now.”

Her face brightened. “Yes, for now. We’ll know in a week.”

None of us spoke any but commonplaces after that until we had drunk our tea and made our farewells.

Hewitt drove us back to the railway station where we caught the train to London. Once sitting in our carriage, I addressed my friend.

“And what will we know in a week, Holmes?”

“If Mrs. Bewden has returned.”

“And if she has not?”

“Then the locked case may have something to tell us. Even if it is only whether the jewelry is there or not.”

“And if it reveals nothing of use?” I was determined to have a clear answer.

Holmes’s gaze met mine, a steely glint in his eyes. “Then, Watson, I shall hold grave fears for Mrs. Bewden’s life.”

The sound of the train wheels was all that I heard thereafter, until we reached London.

7

Once back in our rooms I returned to my practice. Clower had done good work, but patients prefer the familiar. A week passed while I saw my patients, shared meals with Holmes, and once joined medical colleagues for a convivial evening discussing brain tumors.

Eight days after we departed from Bodmin, an ill-written envelope arrived with the morning’s post. The poorly spelled note within said that the lady had not returned so we owned a week’s rent and should also produce the lady’s daughter, as promised.

Within a few hours, Holmes was on his way to Bartlett. I would join him next morning on the train to Bodmin. I rushed some of my visits, I fear. But I did in that day everything I planned to do in three, and was waiting on the platform when the train from Bartlett arrived. Holmes was the first off, with Miss Dorothy at his heels and Charles Hewitt right behind them. Hewitt took her arm in a proprietary way and nodded to me.

“Good to see you again. Have you tickets, or must we purchase them?”

“I have them, but only for three,” I said.

“No matter. I can get one if you’ll take my bag to the carriage.”

I did so and he hurried off, returning at a run as the train prepared to depart. I waved from the window and he leapt aboard.

“A close run thing, as the Duke of Wellington said. Now we’re all here, what is the program?”

With one accord we turned to Holmes.

“We shall go to number 29 Salisbury Close. There Miss Dorothy shall show proof that she is Mrs. Bewden’s daughter and claim her mother’s belongings.”

“And if the jewelry is not there?” Hewitt asked quietly.

“Then we have the list, and we shall go at once to the police.”

Miss Dorothy protested. “I cannot like that! Imagine the publicity, the notoriety if they should discover it stolen. There would be a trial.”

Hewitt looked at her. “Perhaps,” he said, adding significantly, “but it might not be for theft.”

She shivered, turning to Hewitt.

“You really think that Mother is dead?”

“I am uncertain, my dear, but you should prepare yourself for the worst.” He took her hands and received a grateful look. “You did not mention this journey to your sister?” Hewitt asked.

“No, Mr. Holmes thought it best I did not. I could not have done so anyhow, since she left the night before to spend time again with her friends.”

“The friends in Ashton?” Holmes queried, and received a nod in reply. Holmes asked nothing more but I could guess his thoughts. Miss Heather seemed to spend a good deal of time staying with these friends, whoever they were, and he was not alone in wondering where they might fit into all this. Miss Dorothy appeared never to have met them, which was odd to say the least. I decided that to ask might take her mind of other things.

“The friends with whom she stays—what can you tell us of them? How often does she visit?”

She smiled at me. “As I said a while ago, I have never met them. The daughter is a woman with whom Heather was at school. A Margaret Kingston. Her family lives in Ashton and Heather goes there as often as once a month for two or three days. It has been her habit for almost ten years now.

“You must find it unusual that Miss Kingston does not come to stay at Onley. Heather told me that her friend was injured in an accident shortly after they were at school and does not like to travel. It is kind of Heather to go always to see Margaret, and I believe that she esteems her highly. My sister is not always as she appears to you,” she added earnestly.

“She can be generous to those she cares about. Why, seven years ago there was an old lady of our church who was mostly bedridden. Heather went to see her nearly every day to read to her and play chess. The poor woman had no family and all her friends were dead or too frail to visit. Heather was almost her only visitor for two years, until Miss Wilkins died.”

I caught Holmes’s gaze and said nothing as Miss Dorothy chattered on, recounting some of her sister’s good deeds. After meeting her sister, I would say she was one who did nothing unless there would be a return. Probably the old people gave her small trinkets, the occasional piece of jewelry or some attractive ornament. We knew a doctor who did the same thing.

The train drew up at Bodmin after a tiring journey and we alighted on the platform, gathering our overnight cases as Hewitt hastened ahead and procured a taxi. We entered, giving the address of the hotel where Holmes and I had stayed. Once there we went up to our rooms, Holmes sending word to Bargate that we would see him in the morning.

We met again in the dining-room. The meal was well-cooked and ample, but there was little conversation, and we went up early, leaving word that we should all be called at seven.

By eight-thirty we had breakfasted and were on our way to Salisbury Close. The door to number twenty-nine was open and the owner awaited us, ensconced in the largest armchair.

He stood politely. “Come in, lady and gentlemen.” And to Holmes, “I believe you have something for me, sir. As you will see, nothing has been touched, but the lady’s rent here ran out some days ago. I’m out of pocket with not being able to let the place again ’til your arrival.”

Miss Dorothy stepped forward before Holmes could move. “I am grateful to you, Mr. Bargate. I am Miss Dorothy Bewden. The lady is my mother, and I have been told how helpful you were. I have here a statement from my mother’s bank, saying that I am her daughter and known as such to the manager. In addition, I assure you I feel it wrong for my family not to reimburse you.” With that she unobtrusively passed him several banknotes. From his reaction, the remuneration outstripped the debt. “Now, you say that this is all my mother’s things, just as they were left?”

“That’s so, miss. Only thing is, her key isn’t here, unless it’s in the case. But why would that be? You don’t go out somewhere and leave the key locked away when you need it to come and go.”

Holmes spoke sharply. “You did not mention the key before.”

“Didn’t think of it, sir. I have my own key to the cottages. I used that. It wasn’t until I writ to you to say the lady hadn’t returned and her rent had run out that it occurred to me where ever she must be she do have the key with her. I can’t have that, sir. Anyone lays hands on that they could come and go when other people that rent are out, and …” He fell silent.

Miss Dorothy nodded. “I agree. The locks need to be replaced, and that costs money. Please, take this. I would not wish you to be put to extra expense by whatever folly my mother has perpetuated.”

Bargate received a coin, and nodded. “I do thank you, miss. I’ll leave you now. I’ve work to do next door. Let me know when you’re done and I’ll lock up after you. I hope you find your mother, miss, and I hope all’s well with her.”

He left us, shutting the cottage’s front door behind him. We heard him whistling as he traversed the path from one cottage to the next. A door slammed and the whistling was shut off.

Miss Dorothy turned to my friend and for the first time really looked about her. She stared and slowly the color drained from her face as she took in her surroundings.

The bedroom remained in its original disarray, the closed and locked suitcase on top of the chest of drawers. Her mother’s clothing spilled out of the drawers below. Shoes lay jumbled in a small heap by the bed, while empty brandy bottles stood on the windowsills and other flat surfaces. The pulled-back bedclothes appeared as if someone had climbed out of it and not yet returned. And on the bedside table stood her mother’s handbag. She seized it, opening it with a gasp.

“Mother’s handbag! It is! She would never go anywhere without that.” She gaped again as she registered the bottles. “But … but … Mother doesn’t drink. She never has. Mr. Holmes, something is terribly wrong here.”

“I am in agreement with you. Have I your permission to force open your mother’s suitcase?”

She nodded, her hands clasping and unclasping.

“I shall sit here. Do whatever you need to do, Mr. Holmes.” She dropped into the armchair in which Bargate had sat, put her feet together, her hands in her lap in a patient attitude, and fell silent, watching. Hewitt pulled another chair towards hers and sat beside her.

Holmes moved towards the locked suitcase, produced a pick-lock from a small pocket-case, and set to work.

The lock on the suitcase was of good quality indeed. It took him almost four minutes to have it open. When he laid back the lid we could see that, apart from a smaller case tucked inside, the receptacle was empty. Holmes lifted the jewelry case and shook his head.

“What is it?” Hewitt asked quietly.

“I will open it,” Holmes told him, and looked at the silent woman at his side. “But if there is anything remaining within, it is some small item only.” He forced the lock, careful to do little damage, but he was right. There was no sign of the contents.

Miss Dorothy sobbed once, and no one spoke until Hewitt drew in a breath, speaking in a low, conversational voice. “The cottage key is missing, and both cases were locked. Is there any sign of those keys? If not, then it looks as if Mrs. Bewden locked up everything one day and walked off, wearing only what she stood up in, without her handbag, but with her pockets stuffed with a fortune in jewelry and three keys, leaving behind her every evidence of a positive orgy of drink and a room that appears to have been inhabited by a veritable slattern.”

He stared about him. “I know the lady. She is conventional, modest, sensible, and always eager not to be a trouble to anyone. I have never seen her less than neat and tidy both in her person and in any surroundings that she ordered. Nor did she drink. On a number of occasions I have offered her a modest sherry and had it declined. I see all this and,” his voice rose in hard, positive tones, “I do not believe it!”

Miss Dorothy turned to clutch at his hands. “It is true, all you say is true. Mother didn’t drink, not even the smallest amount, and she would never walk away from such disorder. She would clean the room and have all put away before she set foot outside this place.” Her attempt at a smile was pitiful. “Nor would she leave her handbag. It was the last gift father gave her, and she cherished it. She took it with her everywhere. Rather than use some other handbag, she wore only footwear and gloves that matched it. And why would she take her jewelry out of the case to carry it?” She released his hands to put hers to her face. “Oh, it makes no sense.”

Hewitt stood and moved closer to us. “Or it makes too much sense. I tell you frankly, gentlemen, I do not like the look of any of this. There is no proof Mrs. Bewden’s jewels have been stolen, but it looks probable. And where is the lady? As Dorothy says, her mother is most unlikely to have gone out under the circumstances suggested.” He stared at us. “I think it is time we bring in the police, unless you have some strong reason against that?”

Holmes indicated he had not, and Hewitt went over to Miss Dorothy. “My dear, I want you to be brave. I am going to the police station and you must come with me. As the missing person’s daughter, your word will have weight. We must make a report and have a search begun at once.”

“Must we? Mother would hate the idea.”

“We must. Better to find her alive to be annoyed with us than to know we did not do everything possible and she died for want of our action.”

Miss Dorothy straightened, her shoulders going back as she stood. “That is true. Let us go now.” She walked with a determined tread to the door and went out, Hewitt close behind her.

I turned to my friend. “What of us?”

He walked to the vacated armchair and sat. “We wait, Watson. Once the police are here they will take over certain aspects of the case, yet I believe the lady will require our help still. I have my own ideas on events, ideas they will not share, but I know police methods, and I know where first they will look. One moment.”

He rose and went to the door, calling Mr. Bargate’s name. That man promptly appeared by the low dividing hedge.

“Want me, sir?”

“Yes, can you come over please?”

We were joined by the cottage’s owner, who sat on the edge of a tub of flowers by the doorstep and looked up. “Is there some problem?”

“There is,” Holmes told him. “And I feel you should be warned. The circumstances are these.” He recounted what we found, and our conclusions. “Mrs. Bewden’s business partner has insisted on calling in the police, and the lady’s daughter has gone with him to make out a missing person report. Your tenant’s jewelry is missing, items of considerable value. You know your own police better than I do, but what think you that their first assumption will be?”

Bargate’s face set in angry lines. “That I stole her jewelry and made away with her. Aye, it isn’t true, but by the time they believe that they’ll have blackened my name from one end of town to t’other. Why’re you telling me this, sir? Do you have some advice?”

“I do. Retain a lawyer immediately. If the police accuse you or speak of you to others as a murderer, have him threaten that if the police continue to do so, once it is proven you had no involvement in their case, you will bring a lawsuit against each officer personally. In addition—but do not say this before they make allegations—I may be able to say something to them that could send their thoughts in another direction. I can offer a suggestion that may sow confusion and make them less eager to indict you.”

Bargate’s look was astute. “You don’t think I were involved, do you, sir?”

“I do not.”

“And maybe you suspect someone else?” Holmes said nothing. “Aye, sir, ’tis none of my business. I’m right pleased you had a word with me and I’ll do as you say. If you’ll excuse me, sirs, there’s a man I should see and waste no time about it.” He passed through the gate and went off down the road at a brisk heel and toe.

I smiled after him. “That was good of you, Holmes. But the Bodmin police may not be so approving when they arrive.”

In which I was right, as my friend was in his warning. The Inspector, Storringe by name, was a big man running to fat, with small, cold blue eyes and a bullying manner, who took center stage in the cottage and declaimed his conclusions.

“The lady knew no one, and only one other person had access to this cottage. Bargate is the thief, and it’s likely he killed the woman to keep her quiet. We’ll start digging around the place and we’ll find her. Then he’ll hang.”

He completely ignored my friend and me, and now Holmes spoke, making Inspector Storringe jump. “What proof have you that the lady was ever here?”

The Inspector stared. “Why, look about you, man! All her things are here save her jewelry.” His look turned to outrage. “Who the hell are you, anyhow? By what right are you here? Maybe you’re involved in this, and if so, you’ll hang right beside that villain Bargate.” He addressed me then. “And you, who are you? This lady’s father?”

“I am a doctor,” I said coldly, finding the man’s attitude quite appalling. “I am here with my colleague Mr. Sherlock Holmes, at the request of Miss Bewden.”

“Oh, really? I’ve heard of this Holmes, calls himself a detective up in London. We don’t pay much attention to Londoners here, no matter what they call themselves. You,” he snapped at my friend. “What are you doing here? And what do you mean, saying the lady was never here? Well, speak up!”

Holmes remained calm, his voice polite. “Why, I mean that no one ever saw the lady. The cottage was arranged by letter, the rent paid by means of an envelope pushed into Mr. Bargate’s letter slot. No one sold food to the lady, no one saw her pass by in the street. The amount of dust in the cottage suggests that she did not stay in this place. And the only purchases of any kind that could be traced were these,” he indicated the bottles. “They were purchased after dark, from the landlord at The Miner’s Lamp, by a lady who concealed her face. And as anyone who knew the lady can tell you, she did not drink at all.”

Inspector Storringe opened his mouth, shut it again, and we could see he was considering that. When next he spoke, his manner was less hectoring. “Where’d she come here from?”

“From Lanivell,” Holmes informed him. “Where she also rented a cottage, and where sightings of her were almost as rare. She was seen initially but not thereafter, and again she purchased no supplies. She left that place spotless, with a sovereign and a note thanking the landlady, but no one could be found who brought her here, or who had seen her leave Lanivell.”

I realized that the small cold blue eyes were also wily and calculating. Inspector Storringe’s manner might be that of a bully, but he was far from a fool. His attack was intended to startle us into some indiscretion and it failed. Now he absorbed the information given and decided what weight to place upon its reliability. When he spoke again it was clear he provisionally accepted it.

“I’ve heard say you’re a detective up in London.”

“I am a consulting detective,” Holmes agreed mildly. “Amongst others who come to me, I am regularly consulted by the London Metropolitan Police, and on occasion by members of the nobility and certain of the royal family. I believe Lord Temberton has an estate on the border between Cornwall and Devon. I have aided him before now and I’m sure, should you send word, he will vouch for my credentials.”

Storringe eyed him. “Likely that’s the truth or you wouldn’t be using his name. So then, how did you come here? I want the full tale, mind. How you came to be involved, all the places you’ve looked, and what you’ve found out.”

My friend turned to Miss Dorothy whom Hewitt had seated while standing by her watchfully. “As my client, will you permit me to grant Inspector Storringe his request?

Miss Dorothy indicated consent and my friend turned to the Inspector. In well-chosen words, and wasting no time, he laid out all that we had uncovered, and if he gave no indication of conclusions we may have drawn or fears we might entertain, it was yet a lucid and interesting recital and the Inspector missed not a word. Once Holmes fell silent the Inspector grunted.

“Maybe it wasn’t Bargate, but it’ll be someone that knew of the jewelry or saw it. How-some-ever it looks as if truth of the matter is likely in Lanivell. Mind you, I’ll have my lads look about. ’Tis still not quite holiday season, so if the lady was seen hereabouts someone will tell us.” He surveyed Holmes and me. “You’ll come with me to Lanivell.” It was more of an order than a request, but we both assented. The Inspector pursed his lips. “Morning’ll do. I know where you’re staying and I’ll come there shortly. I want a word with Bill Lenham at t’ Miner’s right now.”

I repressed a smile. Somehow I doubted he would get as much from the innkeeper as we had, and likely considerably less. Bill struck me as one who would not like the bullying Inspector, in which case I thought him likely to bear a strong resemblance to a deaf-mute. It may well have been so, because when the Inspector re-joined us in the spacious room Holmes and I had taken again, he was puce in the face, and the first words out of his mouth were uttered in something close to a snarl.

“Nothing! He remembers nothing, says he’s seen so many customers since that he can’t recall nothing … anything. Still, I’ve your description of the person he saw, same one as was seen at the bank, and at this place in Lanivell, too. Has to be the same one?” His look at Holmes was a cross between demanding and imploring.

“So I believe, but what is there to prove that the person was Mrs. Bewden?” Holmes asked, leaving the Inspector sitting there with a blank face as he processed that possibility.

“Here, what are you saying? That the woman in Lanivell wasn’t the young lady’s mother after all?”

“I’m asking what proof have we that she was,” Holmes corrected.

The Inspector considered that for some minutes. “None at all,” he said at last, slowly. “Her face wasn’t ever seen in Lanivell, she paid in cash both there and here, and it’s possible that the papers she showed the bank were false. Aye. We’ve no proof. But none the other way either. Nothing to say she weren’t Martha Bewden both places, I mean. So we’ll be looking for the lady tomorrow, and,” he stood and walked to the door, “I’ll bid you a goodnight until nine o’clock tomorrow morning, when you’ll be ready to come with me.”

We said that we would and heard his footsteps fade down the hotel corridor. I said goodnight to Holmes and retired, too. “Sufficient unto the (next) day were the evils thereof.”

8

All four of us—Hewitt and Miss Dorothy refused to be excluded from the expedition—walked out of the hotel next morning and found a vehicle approaching the steps. It would only seat Holmes and me, the Inspector and his driver, and it took some time to convinced Storringe that our companions might be of assistance. Once we had done so, it took more time for a larger vehicle to be summoned.

While we waited I spoke quietly to Hewitt.

“Can you afford to take time from your work?”

“I have a good manager, a steady man who’s been with the company for years. He knows the business and his only fault is that he does not care to make major monetary decisions, otherwise I’d leave him in charge more often. That may have to change. I intend to stand by Miss Dorothy until her mother is found, however long that takes. She is a good woman, and I will not allow her to be bullied by her sister into some act she may regret.”

I registered the way in which his tone softened when he spoke Miss Dorothy’s name. “A pleasant woman,” I agreed. “Sensible, too. She gives the appearance of being perhaps a trifle slow, but I think her intelligent. The appearance is deceptive.”

Hewitt frowned. “She is intelligent, you have only to converse with her.”

“That’s what I said,” I agreed, hiding my smile.

Well, they could do a lot worse than each other. But remembering that her sister had made an open set at the man, I speculated on how that lady would react should her younger sister carry off the prize. Or what she might do if once she realized this was a possibility.

I might have continued the conversation but the more commodious vehicle arrived, so we set off for Lanivell. The trip there was short, and once in the village we went directly to the cottage rented by Mrs.
Bewden. Mrs. Pentree came out of her cottage as soon as the police vehicle pulled up outside.

“May I help in some way?”

Inspector Storringe moved to front her intimidatingly, his heavy build and near six feet looming over the spare, five-foot figure.

“Tell the truth, madam. That tenant of yours has gone missing. Aye, her and over five thousand pounds worth of jewelry. There’s no proof she ever left your cottage, so what if we start digging, eh? What will we find?”

Susan Pentree squared up like a diminutive boxer. “You go right ahead and start digging. All you’ll find is the odd bone my old Jock may of left. The idea of it! And how was I supposed to commit this murder? Knock the lady on the head? And her bigger than me? Then I suppose I carried her around the place, with none of the neighbors seeing?

“You should know better if you’re a real policeman, which I give leave to doubt. You get on and dig. I’ll stand here. You might start out the back of my own place, as I want to put in potatoes and that’ll be useful. Only way it will be.”

The inspector’s face broke into a vast grin. “Aye, well, I had to ask.”

Mrs. Pentree wasn’t mollified. “You’ve asked, I’ve told. Now unless you’ve something sensible to say, get along with you. I’ve work to do.”

“Aye, so have we all. Now, tell me all about this tenant you had.”

Mrs. Pentree talked, and we stood listening. No, she still had no idea how the lady might have heard about the cottage. No, she’d never seen the lady’s face, nor so far as she knew, the lady hadn’t never shopped in any places about the cottage. Neat, the lady had been. Generous, too.

And so on and so on. In short, everything she told Holmes and me and nothing more.

Before we left, Miss Dorothy stepped past to address the landlady directly. “My mother never spoke to you beyond that first conversation, and you never saw her again? Please, if you had even another glimpse of her, tell us. I’m so afraid.” She looked at Mrs. Pentree, who took her hands in her own work-worn fingers.

“Well,” she said slowly. “I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t sure. I still ain’t. But I did think when I got up middle of that last night that I saw someone walking away. Could have come from the cottage, could have just been walking down the street. Wasn’t likely to have been your mother, my dear. This ’un was a woman, all right, but she’d be half your mum’s age. I could tell by how she walked. Young lady she’d of been, for certain sure. I wouldn’t have told you, but you asked.”

The Inspector grunted. “And now you’ve told us.”

Miss Dorothy turned her shoulder to him, said something that made the landlady chuckle, and a coin passed from hand to hand. Mrs. Pentree went back into her cottage and we re-entered the police vehicle and were driven into the center of Lanivell.

The Inspector caught the bank clerk at his lunch—home-cut sandwiches in a paper bag, eaten by Symonds on a seat in the tiny park at the village center—and grilled the lad like a kipper until the boy was almost in tears.

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know, sir. And I can’t give particulars about the lady’s account. That’s for the manager. All I know is that she came in to make a withdrawal, I escorted her to his office and he came back out with her and said he was satisfied she was who she said and I should accept her request. I don’t know any more.”

Holmes intervened. “Mr. Symonds, that is not what you told us. You said the lady approached you at the counter, showed proof of identity, and you allowed her to draw against her account. You said nothing of your bank manager being involved.”

Edward Symonds turned his head to my friend. “Of course, what I could tell you was nothing confidential. Well, not that much. You were asking for the lady’s daughter, but I didn’t wish to set you on to bother my manager. He’d blame me, and I’d be in trouble. But this’s the police, and I have to tell them everything. That’s right, that’s the law, isn’t it? If they want to ask him questions, they can and he can’t blame me.”

Storringe’s small blue eyes gleamed smugly. “That’s right, lad. So your manager saw the lady, accepted proof that she was Mrs. Bewden, and then brought her back to you. You paid the money she was asking from her account?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long was she with the manager? His name is Polgat?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. George Polgat. I’d reckon her to have been in his office fifteen minutes perhaps, sir.”

“Would that be a reasonable time for him to interview her to establish her identity?”

“It would, sir.” That reply was definite, and I thought that Symonds would stick to it.

The Inspector dismissed the clerk and scowled. “I’ll have to talk to this bank manager. Can’t be doing with such people. They always think they’re above the law, talk about confidentiality, have to get permission from a whole string of their superiors, make complaints about you to people, and can’t tell you the time of day without making a fuss and wanting a lawyer there.”

I surmised that at one time Inspector Storringe had run up against an uncooperative bank manager. That speech was edged with bitterness, not only from personal grievance, I thought, as from the ire of a good police officer who loathes being hampered by some aspects of our country’s laws. But then, an unfettered police force is an abomination. I have heard tales of countries where the police do as they like, and pray England will never become such a place.

The Inspector gathered himself. “Might as well get it over with,” he said dourly, as he headed for the bank. It was at once apparent to Holmes and me why he may have had previous trouble with such men as bank managers.

We entered the bank where, towards the rear and to one side of the counter we could see a polished oak door, bearing a sign: Bank Manager, Mr. George Polgat.

Without pausing, Storringe tramped towards it, flung open the door, and marched in. There was a feminine screech like a stricken peacock, a male cry of horror, and the Inspector came backwards through the door in two flying paces. I pondered who he had surprised in that office, and what, it appeared, had so alarmed him. I was to know.

“Doctor,” Storringe called. “You’re needed. Get in there.”

I obeyed cautiously but with increasing interest. It was no illicit liaison Storringe interrupted, however, but the comfortable discussion between bank manager and a very elderly client over tea in bone china teacups, and chocolate biscuits on matching china plates. Storringe’s loud and violent entry so discomposed the aged client that she dropped her tea cup, shrieked in fright, and fell back in her chair, while the horror in the manager’s voice was caused by tea all over his precious documents, as well as the collapse of the client.

I ministered to the distressed lady—smelling salts were all that was required, along with some hand patting and assurances that the Inspector was merely an impetuous policeman, and not a ravening maniac. After a ministering interlude restored her equanimity, Mr. Polgat escorted his client to her vehicle and she was chauffeured away. The manager
returned to glare at the Inspector.

“Really, sir. I cannot imagine what you thought yourself to be about. This is a bank, not an arena for wild bulls! Poor Lady Emily was so taken aback I can only hope she will not see fit to withdraw her account.”

“I’ve more to worry about …”

The bank manager snorted. “That’s what you think. Lady Emily is the relict of a relative of the Duke of Cumberland. Should she make an official complaint to your superiors, I doubt you will come out of it with much credit. Now, I presume, since you assailed my office like a Viking come ashore from a longboat, you wish to speak to me. Don’t just stand there with your mouth open, come into my office where we can be private and you can get it over with.”

I suppressed a broad smile as the stout, balding manager stamped off, leaving us to follow or not as we chose. Not a man to suffer fools gladly, I surmised, having that in common with the Inspector. Also a man who read history. And he was the second person today to stand up to the Inspector. If that was a fair sample of Storringe’s days, he wasn’t quite the overbearing figure he appeared. At least neither of the two had been overborne.

In fact, the interview was surprisingly amicable once we were all seated in the office. The Inspector explained events, Holmes quietly added a few details, Miss Dorothy gave authority for her mother’s affairs to be discussed, and with that Mr. Polgat confirmed he indeed examined the lady’s papers to be sure she was entitled to withdraw money from that account.

“I did so, yes.” Here he described the papers and Miss Dorothy verified they were such as she would expect her mother to possess. “Besides that, when your mother removed the papers from her handbag, I saw a small diary in dark blue leather, bearing her initials. There were also spectacles in a matching leather case, again initialed.”

The Inspector cast a questioning look at Miss Dorothy. “I gave her both spectacle case and the diary,” she confirmed. “They each had M.C.H. in small silver letters. Martha Clara Bewden.”

The Inspector considered. “It does seem that the lady was Mrs.
Bewden.” And to the manager: “What did she say? Did she mention why she was here? Did she know of Lanivell before?”

Mr. Polgat thought briefly before looking at us. “The lady came in. She stated that she was Mrs. Martha Bewden, and she had a bank account at our branch in Bartlett with a substantial sum on deposit there. She wished to withdraw a minor amount, and had proofs of her possession of an account, its balance, and her identity. She then showed them to me and I agreed they were sufficient. I then escorted her to young Symonds at the counter and directed him to permit a withdrawal. I returned to my office immediately afterward.

“While with me the lady made no conversation, said nothing of her reasons for being in Lanivell, and did not indicate if anyone had suggested our town to her. On the contrary, she was all business. I gained the impression that she may have been in a hurry.”

Further questioning by Storringe could not elicit any solid reason he had thought that, but he had, and he continued to think so now. It was Holmes at the last who ascertained the basis for his certainty.

“The lady came in at mid-morning?” He received a nod. “We came in at mid-morning and you were entertaining Lady Emily to tea and biscuits. Is that your usual custom for valued clients?”

“It is, if the time of their arrival makes it appropriate.”

“You naturally offered this to Mrs. Bewden?”

“I did.”

“But she refused.”

“Yes. She said nothing, merely shook her head and made a gesture as if thanking me. But I thought it reluctant, after all. She had seemed … that is, despite the heaviness of her veil I believed that she was … that she had …”

Storringe roared at him. “Spit it out, man! That she had what?”

The manager made an effort. “She licked her lips as if thirsty.”

Storringe stared. “How did you see that through her veil?” he said softly.

“She turned her head at a sound in the street, and I saw the movement in silhouette,” Mr. Polgat said. “That was why I asked. And,” he added in tones of one to whom much is revealed, “that, I suppose, is why I felt she must be in a hurry, for she was thirsty and yet could not stay to take a cup of tea.”

The Inspector took leave of Mr. Polgat and almost pushed us out before him. Outside he stopped dead on the pavement and his gaze met Holmes’s. “That weren’t why she wouldn’t drink, was it, Mr. Holmes?”

“No,” Holmes said thoughtfully. “She did not wish to raise her veil, as she would have to do in order to drink the offered tea. The veil, as described by different people, has two marks of note. Firstly, it is so heavy the wearer’s features cannot be clearly discerned though it …”

“Ah,” the Inspector continued. “And it extended well past the wearer’s chin. Right down to the neck of her dress, in fact. Wouldn’t be easy to lift that up far enough to drink, and you might accidentally reveal more than intended if you tried.”

We were alone for this brief conversation, as Hewitt and Miss Dorothy had gone ahead to the vehicle. Inspector Storringe turned so his back was to them. “I’ll ask you to say nothing of this, gentlemen. We both know what it could mean, and I’ve no wish to upset the lady before need be. But I think we’re of one mind in this?”

Holmes nodded. “It is best that this theory is not advanced before her. The woman in the bank may not have been Mrs. Martha Bewden. In fact, the woman who stayed in Cornwall may not have been Mrs. Bewden.”

“Aye,” the Inspector agreed. “Yet you jump ahead. It could be that it were Mrs. Bewden here all right, but someone else in the bank and talking to that landlady. And that could have been with the lady’s agreement. Could have been some trick to get money from the bank and then say it weren’t them and demand it be refunded. We don’t know for sure. There’s more possibilities than one, and until I see my way clearer and unravel some things, I’d rather not have any weeping relations hanging about, asking questions, demanding I arrest whoever they think did it, and getting under my feet.”

“Tell me, Inspector,” I asked, from a sudden mischievous impulse. “Do you get many relatives hanging about in your job?”

His groan was heartfelt. “I do. You wouldn’t believe some of it. Take this confounded giant cat as is supposed to be loose on Bodmin Moor. So far I’ve had four women claiming to have lost a husband on the moor! They say the cat must have killed them, want me to give them a death certificate, want the body found, and want me to issue a statement saying I’m of the opinion the cat was responsible. And when I won’t agree to any of it, you never heard such a fuss.”

Holmes nodded. “I’d find out if any of them have life insurance on their husband,” he said. “That may be why the ones who ask for a certificate want one. For the others, I’d see if there’s another man they want to marry.”

The Inspector grinned sourly. “Aye, I thought of that second one. There it’s two of them. Want it all done right and proper and can’t until the man’s proven dead. But I admit, first thought hadn’t occurred to me, not yet anyways. I’ll look into it. Life insurances aren’t so common out here, but it’s a fair idea. What do you plan to do now?”

“Return to London tomorrow,” Holmes said tersely

“Will they go, too?” A jerk of his head indicated Hewitt and Miss Dorothy.

“That’s for them to decide, but I see no reason to remain here,” Holmes added.

With which the duo later agreed. After a quiet night, we caught the train back to London where we alighted, and Hewitt and Miss Dorothy took a second train to travel back to Bartlett, leaving me to my patients and Holmes to his ruminations.

* * *

These ruminations took some time, and after three days apparently required a night away. He did not mention his destination either beforehand or upon his return and I asked no questions. There are times when Holmes enjoys being mysterious and, as a friend, I permit it. In any case, if I do not ask, half of the time he will confide in me eventually, and this occasion was one of those times. Two days after he returned, the following conversation took place over the breakfast table.

“Watson? If you stayed often with friends, would they be likely to admit other visitors?” I considered that and nodded. “What if the friends with whom you stayed were called away, or were busy with some urgent task. Would you and their visitors talk between yourselves?” I nodded again. “Of what?”

I blinked. “That’s a very large question, Holmes, but speaking broadly, and should I not know these other visitors more than slightly, I would say we would talk of anything that was not too personal. That is, I would not confide that my mother was ill and give intimate details, but I might mention she had been unwell and was obdurate in refusing to see the doctor. I could perhaps say I recently attended a music recital and enjoyed it, and I might mention the person giving the recital and whoever was sponsoring them. I would not list every piece and give my opinion on each, and I would definitely not make personal remarks about those attending, such as might identify them.”

Holmes eyebrows rose. “Why not?”

“Because, in my experience, the moment you begin speaking rudely of someone it turns out that the people whom you are addressing are close friends or family members,” I explained. “They will hold it against you forever if you decry someone they know or to whom they are
related, and recount to that person also what you said. You will have made two enemies unnecessarily.”

“Oh.” Holmes thought. “So you find a neutral subject or subjects?”

“Exactly.”

“Such as the area about your home, and the scenic beauties there, perhaps?”

“A very proper subject,” I approved. “One on which you can hardly go wrong.”

“Thank you, Watson. By-the-by, I should inform you I must be away for a night again.”

And with that he drained his cup, replaced it on the table and headed to his bedroom. Before I left on my rounds he reappeared with a small case, an umbrella—the day was clouding over—and an overcoat, as it was also becoming chilly. He preceded me down the stairs and was gone when I reached the pavement.

I spent a productive and busy day, returning to the remembrance that I would be alone, and decided to have a nursery evening of cocoa and toasted crumpets by the fire.

The night was peaceful, and I went out again after breakfast to see one who had long been a patient in my practice. Miss Newton was an elderly lady with a large circle of friends, and after my examination I asked her the question Holmes posed to me.

She chuckled richly. “You were right, Doctor. In such circumstances you keep to general topics that will offend no one. I have often called upon an old friend who had to leave for a while as they attended to some problem. They knew me too well to stand upon ceremony. If they had other visitors whom they knew to be equally forgiving, they would leave us together and we would fall into conversation. But you mistake thereafter. On occasions we would find a personal subject that was mutually attractive.”

“Such as?”

“You suggested a mother refusing to see the doctor, despite being unwell. Perhaps I, too, have a relative who refuses to see the doctor and for whose health I am concerned. We might, in such a case, describe the symptoms of both to each other, and talk of ways in which to convince them to seek medical assistance. We might trade herbal remedies, and commiserate on family members, with examples of how difficult they could be.”

“I see,” I said. “You mean if the subject is of mutual interest, it may turn from the general to the specific and personal, supposing both parties are interested and prepared to be frank?”

Miss Newton nodded in turn. “I can tell you this, Doctor. Once or twice I have found myself in such a conversation where the subject struck a chord with both of us and we discussed it confidentially and personally. As a doctor, you will know that at times, it can be easier to talk of a personal problem with someone you do not know well. They often give a clearer perspective. Of course, in such a case I would not give identifying details, but one who is a trusted friend of your trusted friend may be supposed to be a safe repository for such edited confidences.”

I went home thinking of that and when Holmes joined me for dinner I repeated what Miss Newton said. He listened carefully, saying nothing until I was done. Then he informed me that he would be gone again tomorrow, before changing the subject to that of the Princes in the Tower.

“I am convinced that Richard’s usurper had them murdered. He had far less right to the throne that those children, and no more than Richard.”

“Where do you think Richard was buried?”

“Near the scene of the battle, I believe, and without any indications that a grave had been dug there. I daresay they took sightings on
local landmarks so that if ever any pretender arose, the body could be unearthed and displayed. It would be ironic if one day a laborer finds it when merely sinking the foundations for public works.”

I agreed, and feeling I had heard enough ancient history, asked about his newest monograph on the possible uses of chemicals to extinguish fires. The discussion lasted until bedtime, and when I rose the next morning, I found a note on the table saying that he was called away again. I shrugged, and went out to see others of my patients.

9

Holmes came back late that night from where ever he had been, and over the breakfast table, asked if I had sufficient time that day to return with him to Bartlett. I said that I would. After several days of seeing all my patients, I was up to date with my work, and at a pinch Dr. Clower would again be happy to step in.

“If I may ask, why are we going there?”

“I want to talk to Miss Dorothy and her sister.”

That reminded me of my observations. “Did you notice Hewitt’s attitude towards Miss Dorothy? I think he may be romantically interested in her.”

“Entirely possible, Watson, but not our business just now.”

I finished eating, drained the last of my cup of tea, and stood. “I’ll be ready to leave in half an hour, if that will suit?”

My friend agreed it would and I hastened to my room, rejoining him at the stipulated time.

The train was already at the station when we arrived, so we boarded and shortly thereafter it pulled out. I read the morning newspaper and was interested to see an article on the Beast of Bodmin. This, for once, was by a journalist of some integrity, pooh-poohing the whole story, pointing out that of the four men claimed to have disappeared on the Moor and whose wives said they were killed and eaten by the ferocious creature, none had been clearly shown to have ever been on the moor, while in two cases, the police believed both men yet alive, merely fleeing unhappy marriages.

I grinned as I read. The writer raked up the episodes mentioned by Mrs. Pentree, and quoted at length from those concerned. It seemed that far from the visitor’s poodle having been mistaken for ‘the Beast,’ it had been chasing a farmer’s sheep and he had shot it for that, indignantly
denying he thought it anything but. To quote the man: “Some stupid fool’s [unprintable] dog that the idiot let roam on my land. A’course I shot it, it were worrying a couple’a my ewes ’n’ lambs. Know it were a dog? What do you take me for, man? I bin a farmer all my life. I knew it were a dog even if it were t’ silliest dog I ever saw. Red ribbons in its hair. Gah.”

The widow Harper, whose large tabby cat had been shot dead, not on the Moor, but sunning himself on her windowsill, was so vocal in what was printed that I surmised most of her comments had been deleted as unsuitable for public consumption. Boiled down, it suggested that the departure of her beloved cat for other climes was the start of a village feud that would echo and rumble on for several generations. The cat, far from being shot by any legally constituted authority, had been shot by some too-fast-on-the-trigger lad whose head was filled with dark tales of The Beast. To add to her outrage, the bullet had then pierced her window, passed by her head and broken a valuable glass lampshade given to her on her wedding day.

As for the farmer whose dog had been shot by Beast vigilantes, all he had to say was that he “were taking it to law, and no one who couldn’t tell the difference between a black and white sheepdog and a gert great black cat-beast shouldn’t be allowed to have no gun.” At least, that was what he was reported to have said. I sensed an echo behind the statement of a much more vitriolic utterance, one that probably had more to say on the shooter’s ancestry, lack of common sense, failing eyesight, and ultimate destination.

As we arrived in Bartlett, I finished reading the newspaper, folded it neatly, and laid it on the seat for the pleasurable reading of some other passenger. To my surprise, we were met by Miss Dorothy at the wheel of a small, neat car—not new, but in good condition—and apparently competently driven. I freely admit that I stared.

She smiled at me. “Do not look so startled, Doctor. I’ve been driving for some months now. Up until this week Mr. Hewitt has been teaching me and I drove a small car belonging to the business. Now I have purchased my own.” Her eyes glimmered wickedly. “My sister does not like it, but as I pointed out, I am of age, I could afford to purchase the vehicle, and it is none of her business.”

Well, well, well, I thought. Mr. Hewitt is so enlightened as to not only be happy for you to drive, he was prepared to teach you; something that suggests a partiality for your company, and tolerance of a novice driver, too. Evidently a man of equable temper—if all this is not some sort of mask, as Holmes suggested.

Aloud I said, “And he helped you buy the car, or did you do that alone?”

“Both. I found it, after which he looked it over for me and agreed it was a good choice. I then paid the owner, who is buying something new, larger, and more powerful. Please, gentlemen, enter, and let us go on our way.”

We did so, and I was pleased to note that she was a good driver, calm and sensible, aware of her surroundings, and in no hurry.

At a speed of twenty miles an hour it took no time at all before we reached Onley and pulled into the driveway before the house. Miss Dorothy halted the vehicle and set the brake. I was out first, holding the door for her. From the side of the house there came a bray and a small gray form trotted towards us, halting by the fence that closed off the back area. Beside the donkey a pony advanced also, his nose stretched out to beg some tidbit.

I walked over to see them. Both were, as I judged it, quite elderly, but in fine condition, their hooves having been recently rasped down and their coats brushed. Both animals pushed and jostled gently, turning hopefully towards Miss Dorothy as she approached.

“No, I have nothing for you right now. I’ll bring you something later when Heather is away. You know my sister doesn’t like me to feed you.”

As if understanding her words, they walked away. I recalled her saying at our first meeting that her sister had a dog, two cats, a donkey and a pony. We had seen the cats and the dog on our last visit here. The cats certainly had not behaved as if Miss Heather was their owner, and the dog obeyed her order to return to her when I was petting the animal with suspicious promptitude. His haste suggested fear, rather than a desire to obey a loved owner.

I asked quietly, “Your sister does not like you to pay attention to any of her animals?”

“No, Doctor. She likes them to go to no one but her. She says that an animal should have one owner and look only to them.”

I disagreed heartily. While saying nothing to that, however, it did not improve my opinion of her sister, although, of course, a preference for her beasts to pay her the most attention is not necessarily the mark of a criminal.

I followed the lady to where my friend was waiting at the front door, and we entered to find Miss Heather standing in the entrance hall, a scowl on her face. To us she said, “What are you doing here again? I said you were not welcome and you were not to come back.” And to her sister: “Send them away! Send them away right now! They have no right to enter my home.”

Miss Dorothy met her sister’s scowl with a bland smile. “Nonsense. It’s my home, too. They are my guests. You will just have to live with that until Mother comes back.” She led us to a smaller sitting-room upstairs, and shut the door behind us. Then, quietly, she produced a key and locked the door.

Holmes raised his eyebrows. “Have things come to that pass?”

Miss Dorothy indicated we should sit and we did so as soon as she was herself seated. “I’m afraid they have, Mr. Holmes. My sister accused me yesterday of trying to injure her reputation. She claimed I had spread rumors around Bartlett that she was in some way responsible for our mother’s departure. She demanded I leave, and I refused. She then said that I was attempting to damage her relationship with Mr. Hewitt, and take her place in his affections.”

I shook my head. “It is perhaps wrong to say so, but I believe Mr. Hewitt has long since held no good opinion of your sister.”

Miss Dorothy’s head came up proudly. “I know. She still thinks she will win him over, but that was never the case. He neither likes nor trusts her. Instead, he has done me the honor to declare himself. We decided to say nothing to any save you gentlemen, since he wishes to ask my mother’s permission before making it generally known.”

Holmes spoke quietly. “And if your mother refuses him that permission?”

The large blue eyes were calm and certain. “I am of age and I have my own money. We have discussed it, and once Mother is home again we will tell her. If she agrees, we will have the banns called. If she
refuses, we will have them called anyhow and marry within a few months. Neither of us can see any rational reason why she should not agree.”

“And if your mother does not return?” Holmes questioned.

“You mean if she is not back soon?”

“I mean, if she never returns. How long will you wait?” Holmes asked, his tones neutral.

Miss Dorothy faltered, and her gaze fell. “I do not know. How can I say? There is but one reason she would never return. I do not understand why she left as it is, and surely she will return?” She felt us both watching and flung her head up. “I knew that has always been a possibility from the time I asked for Mr. Holmes’s assistance. I did not wish to admit it, that is all. But since you demand a reply, I will say this: Charles and I love each other. I will wait until the end of the year. If Mother has not been found or has not returned by then, I will marry him in the new year.”

Holmes’s voice stayed bland. “What if your sister tries to prevent it?”

“My sister has nothing to say to my marriage, unless she wishes to make a fool of herself. What, you think she would speak up when the service reaches that portion where it is asked if anyone knows of an impediment? She is not so silly.”

I thought Miss Heather might not see it as that; rather that she would be protesting her own rights, although it was true that in this case she had none. Yet a furious woman will sometimes go to great lengths and ignore the rights of others in order to display her own wrongs for public sympathy. And, so I supposed, it could also be that she was, in her own way, attempting to protect her sister.

“And where will you live?” Holmes added.

“I do not know. If asked, and without consultation, I would suggest to Charles that we spend the weeknights at his flat, which is adjacent to the warehouse, and the weekends here at Onley.”

“You will not leave the field of battle to your sister, then?”

“No!” Her eyes blazed, while her fine, clear skin flushed in outraged anger. “No, this is my home as much as hers! I will never leave it solely to her unless our mother returns to demand it, or unless Mother’s will states that as her decision.” She rose from her chair and walked to the window, glancing out before turning.

“All my life Heather obliged me to yield to her as the elder. If I objected, she made it appear I was the contentious one. She bullied and threatened me, lowering me in the esteem of others. Now a good man would have me as his wife, and she expects me not only to stand aside, but also to give up my home? I shall not. I no longer care what she says, or what she will do. I will marry Charles, I will not give up Onley. I will no longer be subservient to Heather, and if my mother returns, I shall yet hold fast to that.”

She faced us, a resolute Valkyrie, determined to make her stand.

Involuntarily I applauded. “Brava! Brava, Miss Dorothy.”

She smiled at me, fell back into her chair, and sighed. “It is easy to make speeches and harder to carry out what is said. Are we any closer to finding Mother?”

I looked over at Holmes. “Perhaps,” he said, and we both sat up and fixed our attention upon him. “Miss Dorothy, I need to ask further questions of your sister. If you will go downstairs and request her attendance, it would be useful.”

“And if she will not come?” he was asked.

“Tell her that I am working in consultation with the Bodmin and Lanivell police.”

Miss Dorothy went on her errand and I glanced across at my friend. “Why should she care about that?”

“Because it would do her no good should it be known locally that she would do nothing to help find her mother,” was his reply. “The lady will know that.”

I did not see it, but in the event he was right, for Miss Dorothy returned, followed by her sister. Unwillingly, as I saw. Miss Heather entered with dragging steps and a resentful glare, seating herself as far from Holmes as possible. She fixed her look somewhere to the right of him and waited.

“I would ask you to begin from the beginning and go on from there,” he said.

“What beginning?”

“From the first time that your mother indicated she might be thinking of taking a holiday away from Onley.”

There was a long silence, broken by her complaint. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” I saw, as did my friend, that he would get no help from the lady if she could avoid it.

“What did your mother say that first made you think she planned to go away for a while?”

“I don’t remember.”

“How do you think her to have decided upon Cornwall as a destination?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does she know the area or anyone living there?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Have you had more than the one letter from her?”

“No.”

“Have you had any other communication from her?”

“No.”

“Has your sister told you what we found at Bodmin?”

“Yes.”

“And you know nothing, you can make no suggestion as to what may have become of your mother, or where she may have gone?”

“No.”

“Have you yourself ever been to Cornwall?” And to that she merely shook her head.

It took some time. Holmes in pursuit of the truth is relentless, but even he could see he would get nothing, short of the application of rack and thumbscrews, and he allowed the lady to leave. This she did, not so much shutting the door as slamming it behind her with a crash that shook the room.

“Did that gain you anything?” her sister asked, as the echoes died away.

Holmes’s look was a fraction smug. “More than the lady knows,” he said.

Miss Dorothy brightened. “What? What did you learn, Mr. Holmes?” She leaned forward, her gaze fixed on his face.

“Another piece in a puzzle,” he replied to that urgent query. “But we have some way to go as yet. I am gaining pieces to the puzzle, but the main question is yet unanswered.”

“Yes. What has happened to Mother,” she agreed, and asked no more. She turned to look the window again. “Oh, Heather is going somewhere. There’s a taxi at the door. I wonder if she’ll be back tonight?” She flung up the sash and called down. “Heather, will you be home for dinner?”

The reply floated back on the ambient air. “No, I won’t.”

Miss Dorothy pulled down the window and turned to us.

“You heard?” We nodded. “I suppose that’s it. If she isn’t here you can’t ask her anymore.”

“I have no more to ask her,” Holmes assured his client. “Now, if we may, I have a request for you.”

“Whatever you wish.”

“Then may we have permission to search your mother’s rooms, and any other place around Onley where she may have papers or possessions stored. We will leave no traces of such a hunt, but we need to find, if anything is to be found, indications as to her knowledge of Cornwall, or friends or acquaintances there. Did your father ever take her there, perhaps before the arrival of you and your sister? And if he had or still has—relatives in that county.”

She bowed her head in thought. “I see no reason against it, so long as, as you say, you leave no trace. I would rather not have my sister attack me again over some new sin I am said to have committed.”

I caught my friend’s look. “I am hungry,” I said plaintively. “And I’m sure you are too, Miss Dorothy. Could you find us all something to eat while we search?”

Her face brightened. “I can do that. Would you rather have something light, or something more sustaining?” I plumped for sustaining. “Good. I’ll feed the animals while I’m downstairs, too,” and she hurried away. Holmes surveyed me with approval.

“Well done, Watson. Now, as we promised, leave no sign, but miss nothing.”

We set to. After so long assisting Holmes I am quite competent as a searcher, but all I found was evidence of a blameless life, apart from one item which I drew to his attention. “Holmes, look here.”

I passed him the envelope, which he opened. He withdrew and studied the receipt inside. “That is enlightening.”

“Why?”

“Because, Watson, the envelope says ‘receipt for painting.’” I noticed the painting in the main sitting-room. On our initial visit to the house, Miss Heather could not refrain from touching and looking at it. That, in itself, does not prove there is any connection between the
Bewdens and Cornwall. Mr. Bewden or his wife may have merely liked the painting and purchased it from some gallery in London. However, the receipt says that the painting is called Bodmin Moor on a Sunny Day, and it has an address, one in Bodmin. That indicates that it was purchased in Bodmin. Therefore, there is some connection between the Bewdens and Cornwall.”

I considered that. “Could they have asked some friend going there to buy them a suitable landscape?”

“I think not, Watson. That is a large painting. It was expensive and could have been ill-chosen. They would be unlikely to take such a chance.”

“Then you believe that at some time after their marriage they visited Bodmin and bought the painting? Perhaps they did so on their honeymoon, as a souvenir of a happy time in their lives. They need not have known anyone there.”

“That is true, yet that painting has hung there all the girls’ lives,” Holmes commented.

I thought that it may have, but I did not see what that had to do with Mrs. Bewden’s vanishing in Cornwall. Did he think that for some reason she determined to take her own life and returned to the place where she had been happiest?

I asked and he shook his head. “No, Watson. It is merely that sometimes when an item has been so long in its place, you cease to notice it. Yet its very existence may influence you more than you realize.”

I could make nothing of that and sat down to wait until Miss Dorothy should call us for lunch. Holmes pocketed the receipt, and on my protest, said it would be returned. Its absence was not, meanwhile, likely to be noticed.

Miss Dorothy called us to the dining-room a short time after, where we ate heartily of excellent omelets and talked casually before we went out to feed carrot pieces to the donkey and pony, pet the cats who appeared for that attention, and finally, after a further session of questioning, we were driven back to catch the train to London and Baker Street. Holmes appeared quite satisfied by our exertions, while I was merely weary and wondering if we would ever discover the whereabouts of this misplaced mother.

10

Once back in London, I returned to my patients and Holmes to his investigations—not of Mrs. Martha Bewden, but of the Princes in the Tower. I chided him gently when I discovered that.

“Holmes, Miss Dorothy wants her mother back. Surely that is more important that any history mystery?” I chuckled at my inadvertent rhyme.

“Yes, Watson, it is. I am waiting, however, to hear from Inspector Storringe.”

“Oh?”

He said no more, and I assumed that it was merely some inquiry Storringe was making, and that I would hear about it in due course.

I had a busy week. I left first thing in the morning, coming back exhausted each night, but at last the current influenza epidemic was over, and I could catch my breath and spend more time with my friend. I sat down at the breakfast table some ten days after our last return from Bartlett and joined Holmes, who was attacking his food as if starved.

“Holmes?” He muttered acknowledgment. “Have you been missing meals again?”

With that, he glanced up and smiled. “Yes, I suppose I have, Watson. I’m sorry, I am discourteous.”

“What have you been working on?”

He became animated. I listened to a long discourse on the possibilities inherent in understanding the criminal mind. I understood about half, but as I kept sliding food under my friend’s nose while he talked, and he kept eating that absentmindedly, I was happy to sit and listen until the dissertation ran down.

Once it did so and he ceased to eat, I nodded. “That should be of use to the police.”

Holmes eyed me. “Yes. To law-officers in a number of areas.”

I bethought me of his earlier comment on Storringe. “And have you heard from the Inspector yet?”

“I have—and from certain other informants also.” I looked the question I did not wish to ask outright. “Oh, very well, Watson. You have seen the further articles about the great cat on the moor?”

I grinned. I had indeed. There was a new sighting claimed the day we returned from Bartlett. A young man was said to have been killed by the animal. And if driving like a madman was a ‘great cat,’ then so he had.

“I read about it, as you say, Holmes. It was all nonsense. He was driving across the moor when some animal crossed the road. Taken by surprise, he swerved to avoid it and crashed. The article was based on a woman who came upon the scene and the dying driver soon after. She claimed his final words were ‘the cat,’ and looking around, she saw a great black shape slinking away in the dusk.”

I snorted loudly. “We both know how the dusk can distort dimensions. It likely was a cat—not the Beast of Bodmin—but an ordinary cat wandering from one of the nearby farmhouses. The young man swerved to avoid it, as is natural. His words were no more than a protest that he had not been driving dangerously, possibly at her questioning if that was the reason for his crash.”

Holmes nodded. “Very likely, Watson. But the result is further local outcry, and the authorities are determined to find this animal and set local fears to rest. As a result, they called in the army to search the moor, which task is just completed.”

“And did they find the Beast?” I asked, a touch of cynicism in my tones.

“No. According to my information they found many black sheep, two small, dark-colored ponies, a positive clowder of black cats, a number of black dogs, and even a shepherd in the habit of traversing the moor while wearing a voluminous black, full-length coat given him by his employer. I’m sorry to say that the shepherd, being closest in description and size to the expected Beast, suffered a minor injury when fired upon.”

I stared at Holmes, my mind awash with a picture of the army advancing line-abreast across the moor. Why? I wondered. Was someone supposed to arrest the beast if they came upon it? Only to find sheep, dogs, cats, ponies, and a solitary shepherd, at whom they promptly shot.

“What about the shepherd?”

“I am told that the man will recover, he has been compensated, and the private who discharged his rifle has been reprimanded. I do not
altogether blame the lad. If I know anything of the locals, the army, in Bodmin for two days beforehand, were filled with terrifying tales of the Beast. The shepherd walked around a clump of brush, right into sight of the lad, and being surprised to see a line of soldiers advancing on him with rifles at the ready, he emitted a sound of surprise and flung up his arms.”

I understood at once. “And the lad, seeing a vast black shape that apparently roared and prepared to attack, fired his rifle without delay?”

“So a witness says. Storringe, being present and behind the line, had more time to evaluate the situation and see who faced them. He says he called not to fire, but that his order was too late.”

“The lad would not have listened anyway,” I said. “Soldiers are trained to obey their officers, not any random civilian who happens to be present. I hope it does not damage the lad’s career.”

“I daresay it will not, Watson. His officers understand the situation. But Storringe took the opportunity to search the moor as fully as possible. He says that it is possible there are any number of undiscovered bodies but, he thinks, none placed there recently.”

“How could he know?”

“The birds, Watson.”

“Oh,” I said. “Yes, of course. They would betray any carrion. And I daresay he watched also for any signs of a recent burial.” Holmes nodded. “Then you think Mrs. Bewden, where ever else she may be, is not lying dead upon the moor?”

Holmes stared at the doorway with such concentration that I found myself staring at it too, as if expecting some dramatic entrance, perhaps of someone crying that all was discovered. No such event happened and I realized that Holmes was in deep thought, his gaze merely alighting on that opening. I waited. After several minutes, he uttered a sound of exasperation.

“What is it?”

“I do not know, Watson! But when you said that, something stirred in the deepest recesses of my mind. I know something, I am sure of it. I merely cannot draw it forth.”

“Well,” I told him, “sleep on it tonight, and you may remember by morning.”

He agreed, we finished eating and parted, each to his own occupation.

* * *

I had another busy day. My patient, Mr. Arbuthnot, suffered a nasty bout of influenza and, as he was both old and not in good health, he had been very ill. I did all that was in my power, and one of his sons, being a man of some wealth—howbeit ill-gotten—procured a nurse to live in and care for his father during the time of his illness. Miss Menten was competent, fully-trained, and a pleasant woman whom the old man liked. She met me at the door.

“The patient is much better today, Doctor.”

I thanked her, examined Mr. Arbuthnot, and agreed. The old man, on hearing that he could dispense with his nurse, was both pleased and sorry.

“I’ll miss you, girl, you’ve bin good to me. How-some-ever it’ll be pleasant to have the house to myself again.” He looked up at me. “And you, Doctor. You saved my life, I reckon, and I thank you, too.” I hastily discounted doing anything but my job and was grinned at toothlessly. “Aye, I remember, don’t like to be thanked, do you? No change there.” He sobered. “But I knows what I knows.”

I changed the subject. “I’d like Miss Menton to stay tonight. She may leave tomorrow morning. Is Alf coming to see you today?”

“He be coming this very morning,” he said. I heard a click from the front of the house and the old man commented, “Reckon that’ll be him now.”

It was.

Alfred Arbuthnot was a tall, well-built man, always dressed smartly, and politely spoken. I worked with him quite recently in a case involving another client and her cat, and he greeted me cheerfully. I returned that, and Miss Menton vanished to the kitchen to return with a tea-tray. So we sat about Mr. Arbuthnot’s bed, talking and drinking the cup that cheers until the nurse excused herself to carry out the washing-up and do some housework.

With her gone and the patient interested, I mentioned something of Holmes’s current case. No names, of course, but something of the circumstances and personalities involved. Alf frowned.

“Best you be careful, Doctor. I can tell you that women don’t take so readily to crime as us men do, but when they do, they’re far more dangerous. I think that in some ways they see crime as a game of chess, and they think three, four, five moves ahead. Of course, that’s what often gets them in the end. In my experience, the more elaborate the crime, the more easily it can unravel.”

At which point he told us a tale of the moderately well-off aunt of one of his men. She decided to kill her husband, poisoned, and then dismembered him to dispose of the parts all over London, and ended up in a tram with a hatbox containing the man’s head.

“So she was sitting there, as nice and respectable old lady as you’ve ever seen, when this drunk stumbles against her, the lid falls off, drunk looks down, sees the head grinning up at him, and starts screaming.” Alfred smiled reminiscently. “They hanged her, and Joey inherited what she left. He said it were a pity more of his relatives didn’t do that.”

“What? Murder their spouse, or will their property to him?” I asked facetiously.

His smile expanded. “Knowing Joey, I’d say both. And this case of yours, Doctor. You tell Mr. Holmes look at how the lady thinks, ask about other things she’s done as she wanted to get away with. People follow their own way of thinking, don’t matter if it’s straight or a crime. Way they think is the way they go.”

I returned later that evening, and on sitting down with Holmes over a good roast of mutton for dinner, I recounted Alf’s tale of Joey’s aunt, including my final question and Alf’s response.

Holmes’s gray eyes glimmered. “Yes, I can see his point. And from the police view it’s useful. So many criminals are stupid, careless, or trust the wrong confederates. It is annoying, as I prefer my criminals to be intelligent.”

That reminded me, and I quoted Alf on ‘the chess mind.’

Holmes looked up sharply from his roast potatoes. “Does he play chess?”

I could answer that.

“He does, as can his father, who taught all his children. He may be uneducated formally, but like many of his type, people would be surprised at what he knows. Old Mr. Arbuthnot learned from an employer who liked a good game and found his family rarely had time. So when old Josiah was his gardener’s boy, he taught him, and said he’d find that thinking a few moves ahead was always an advantage. I’ve played the old man a few times, and I can tell you, Holmes, he is better than I am.”

“Not difficult,” was the retort. “But his son? Is he a good player?”

“Better than his father, or so his father says,” I affirmed.

Holmes nodded thoughtfully and continued the meal without further comment.

* * *

I was up bright and early the next morning, but my patient list was light and would be cleared by lunchtime. I said as much when Holmes asked, and he looked as pleased as he ever shows.

“Would you care to come to Bartlett again?”

“If you would like me to, I would be happy to accompany you.”

Holmes indicated that was indeed his wish and I boarded the train with him, taking our seats in the otherwise empty carriage, since mid-morning was a time when few passengers travelled out of London. I waited until the train was in motion before I approached the subject.

“Why are we going to Bartlett, Holmes?”

“I intend to encourage Miss Dorothy to reminisce.”

Our conversation of the previous night being still in my mind, I was not slow to understand. “About her sister, how she thinks, and how she acts when she does not wish to be found out,” I said triumphantly.

“That is so, Watson.”

There was something in his voice that I recognized. “You already have some idea,” I stated. “You wish to make certain it is right.”

“Yes. Little by little this puzzle is coming together, and I nearly see my way. Storringe is making further inquiries. He has become almost as eager as I to see the outcome of this case.”

“Why? What good will it do him?”

“Watson, Watson! Some policemen are natural hunters. They hunt only the finest prey, and what better than a clever criminal? One who murders while no one suspects. Or one who has killed and concealed the body and the details of their crime so cunningly that the chance of a successful prosecution is rendered unlikely, and thus they may escape conviction. Inspector Storringe is of that sort, and besides.” He glanced at me. “If the crime was committed in Cornwall, he will be seen as the one who solved the murder.”

I was indignant. “But it will be you that did so!”

“You know me, Watson. It is more important that Miss Dorothy’s mother be found than the crime, if crime there is, result in a conviction and a hanging. Leave that to Inspector Storringe, and let the public and his superiors praise him. That will aid his career, while doing little for mine. Those to whom the results are genuinely important will know the truth, and it is not as if I will not be paid.”

I subsided. All that was true. Holmes never aspired to live in the public eye. In fact, he preferred otherwise, since it made his work easier. He was right again in that those who needed to know the real detective, would do so. Storringe would not be lauded by his superiors so much for his crime-solving abilities as for his ability to persuade Holmes to share information, and offer the police the solution when he knew it. Then, too, it was known in the police force that oft times when Holmes was on the hunt, word of other crimes and criminals came to light. Not that I could think of any this time, but it was a consideration.

We alighted at Bartlett, a telegram having apprised Miss Dorothy of our time of arrival and upon which train. She was waiting in her small car and drove us quietly to Onley, where she led us to her sitting-room, shutting the door once we had been joined by the cats. She placed a small table by the inward-opening door and smiled in satisfaction.

“My sister is home, and last time I locked the door she complained, but should she attempt to open the door, we shall yet have warning.”

I saw that the table, a very spindly affair, had its legs dug deep into the carpet and was hard against the door, so any attempt to move it away would only wedge it tighter. I was not sure it would answer the purpose so well as the lady believed, but said nothing.

The cats settled as before, one on Holmes’s lap and one on Miss Dorothy’s. Holmes explained his plan and Miss Dorothy, an intelligent woman, understood. For a short time we chatted idly of newspaper tales and other current events, allowing her sister to become curious. Then the cat, Mischief, sat up, his ears quivering, and the other cat followed suit, both of them staring at the door. I saw that Miss Dorothy had left it very slightly ajar.

Holmes raised his voice a little. “I can only regret that I have no news for you, Miss Dorothy.” He pointed to the door and she nodded, her voice in turn sounding clear.

“I would yet like for you, if you will, to describe Lanivell. My mother seems to have been happy there, and I would like to hear of it.”

Holmes went into a long-winded talk on the beauties of Cornwall in general and the village in particular, and we watched the cats. It took almost ten minutes by my pocket watch, but the cats settled again and Miss Dorothy spoke so quietly that even one with her ear to the door could not distinguish the words.

“Do you think she has gone?”

Holmes stroked a cat, which purred, relaxing happily into the stroking hand. “Tell me, does she kick them?”

“Not when I am watching.”

“But she may do so when you are not within sight. I see.” He fixed her gaze with his. “You described her as an animal-lover on your original visit. Who does feed her animals? Who cares for them and pays their cost?”

She looked at the carpet. “I suppose I do.”

“And why did you not say this?”

She flushed. “I did not wish to prejudice you.”

“A lamentable motive,” Holmes said austerely. “If by doing so you also hide from me necessary information. I must ask you to be more open with us today. Now.” He set out the position. “I want you, if you will, to consider your sister and her habits. I know she has often done things that distressed you. I wish you to select some outrageous event, perhaps when you were about twelve or thirteen, and tell me exactly how she committed it, how she escaped blame, and how she convinced others she was not responsible. Can you do that?”

“I can.” Her voice was resolute and her face set in determined lines. “From our childhood, Heather resented me. One of Mother’s friends once told me our parents so petted and spoiled Heather that when I came along to take some of their time and attention, she deeply resented me. She said it was not uncommon, but usually such resentment was forgotten as children grew up. In this case it was not, she said, because I was more like my father. He became my champion and, catching Heather at some of her meaner tricks, he punished her. This she resented still more, blaming me.”

“Can you tell me of those earlier times?”

She recounted several, and we both saw a single feature common to each: they were intended to injure Miss Dorothy. Perhaps not severely, but each time there was a clear potential for some sort of harm to a small child. It did not surprise me that Mr. Latimer Bewden put a stop to such tricks. What did surprise me was Miss Dorothy’s report that her mother not only did nothing, even when her younger child suffered injury, but protested her elder daughter’s punishment.

“I think she believed it childish mischief, that I was clumsy and thus hurt myself, and it was not really Heather’s fault. Father did not believe that, and the last time I was hurt he spanked my sister, saying an elder child was there to protect a younger one, not to lead her into danger and leave her there. I remember he was very angry.”

“I see,” Holmes said thoughtfully. “As a small child, your sister found that when she played dangerous tricks on you it was she who suffered, so long as it could be seen that the responsibility was hers. This would have encouraged her to be more cautious, to see no one knew she was responsible, should you suffer injury.”

“I saw, too,” Miss Dorothy said, her voice grim. “While I was too young to understand, I answered Father honestly and he punished Heather. As I became older I found that if she were punished, it was I who suffered later, often at her hand. I became careful in anything I did around her, and in anything I said.”

“At which she complained that you were sly?” Holmes suggested and Miss Dorothy nodded. “Seeing that you could not escape, and either she caused you injury of some sort or traduced you, you spent more time with your father …”

“I did,” she burst out. “It made matters worse, although I did not see that for some time. I went often with my father to his business. I loved it there, for he taught me and I knew those who worked there, all of whom were kind. Oh, I attended school, but when I was not there I was often at the business, and as I grew older I began to assist my father to count stock and do the accounts. Mother complained, but father did not listen, and I think she did not really mind. It was Heather who set her on to protest.”

Holmes jerked in his chair and my gaze focused. I had seen that reaction before: he was on to something.

“Miss Dorothy, do you have a copy of your father’s will?”

“A complete copy? No. There is some sort of abstract here, but the entire will is held at our lawyers’ offices.”

“And you heard only that shorter portion read upon your father’s death. You have never read or heard read the entire will?”

The woman looked bewildered. “That is so.”

“Would you drive us to the lawyer’s office? Or stay, no. Will you drive us to Hewitt’s office?”

“I can, if you will explain on the way.”

Holmes assented and we hastened down the stairs, brushing past an enraged Miss Heather. Hovering at the foot, she demanded to know where we were going in such a great hurry, what we had been about, and the topic of our conversation.

Holmes ignored her, as did I, but Miss Dorothy paused to speak.

“We are going into town, Heather. We have been discussing art, and I decided I must have a small landscape painting immediately.”

And leaving her sister gaping, she led us out the front door and into the car that was parked nearby. Her sister pursued us, but with a cheerful smile and wave, Miss Dorothy set the car in motion, and we shot up the drive and out of sight. Once on the road our driver began to giggle.

“I should not have done that, but did you see her face? She looked like a fish with its mouth wide open.”

“Does she still attack you in any way?” Holmes queried.

“Not since Mother left.” She looked suddenly puzzled. “Why did she stop?”

“Because,” Holmes informed her, “most of her early attacks were an ill-informed attempt to drive you from her home. After that she concentrated on seeing that, so far as was possible, no one would ever listen to you over her, or would trust you, would like or esteem you more than she. Her later attacks were, I believe, motivated by jealousy of your relationship with your father. I tell you most sincerely too, Miss Dorothy, do not allow her to guess that Charles Hewitt has any regard whatsoever for you.”

I leaned forward from where I sat in the back seat and endorsed that. “I agree. Your sister is highly strung, and having spent her life ensuring that all of the world around her is as she wishes it to be, should she find something changing to her detriment, as she would see it, she may react violently.”

Miss Dorothy sat silent after that until we reached Chas. Hewitt – Storage and Deliveries. Hewitt met us at the gate, took one look at Miss Dorothy and almost ran us through the building to his office, demanding from the nearest clerk, “Tea tray! Now!” in a stentorian voice.

We sat in silence until the tray was safely delivered. Hewitt instructed the clerk that we were not to be disturbed under any circumstances short of death and destruction, shut the door after him, poured out tea, and shared around the biscuits. He nodded to Holmes and waited for an explanation.

11

That explanation was quickly given by Holmes. I repeated what I said that agitated Miss Dorothy, and Hewitt absorbed it all.

“I am unsurprised,” he told me. “I have always considered there was something unbalanced about the woman. The fact is, her father thought so as well.”

“Ah,” Holmes cut in. “The will.”

“As you say, sir—the will. I told you I saw it. I said it was a copy, but in fact the will I read was the original. The lawyer implored me most strongly never to admit to any that I had seen it, since it was by accident, and certain of the terms were confidential and could be embarrassing to Mrs. Bewden. What I told you was a compromise based on my esteem for Miss Dorothy and my fear that her sister might take advantage of her in some way.”

He hesitated. “I will not break a promise, but I can take you now to that man, and you should ask your questions. I will most strongly suggest to him that now is a time to speak honestly. I think that you, Mr. Holmes, may have some glimmering of the truth, one that remains not mine to tell.”

And so it was that, once more, we embarked on a journey. By foot this time and much shorter, since the lawyers’ firm was two streets away. Hewitt telephoned ahead and we were at once shown into Mr. McFeddon’s office.

With the door shut, the elderly lawyer regarded us over gold-rimmed pince-nez and fussily straightened a file on his desk as Holmes told him of events and our concerns, and asked for the light of greater clarity to be shone on certain legal bequests. Once he fell silent, Mr. McFeddon nodded agreement.

“Hmmm, yes. Being now apprised of your concerns, I feel you to be in the right with your appeal. At the time of Mr. Latimer Bewden’s s death, I did not think it necessary to read the entire will to his beneficiaries. In fact, he left a written instruction to me not to do so. He said that some of the conditions, if heard by others, would embarrass his wife, infuriate his elder daughter, and render the younger daughter a target.” His gaze upon us sharpened. “Something that, having heard what you have to say, I now feel must be taken into account.”

I opened my mouth as an appalling thought concerning the deceased Mr. Latimer occurred to me, but at a slight gesture from Holmes I remained silent.

Charles Hewitt nodded. “I presume you mean to be frank with us, rather than that you are not prepared to do so?”

“I am.”

And with that brief agreement he opened the file before him and began to read. He wasted little time with the usual preliminaries of the document, but went to the meat, beginning with the bequests to the daughters. Both inherited equal sums but, as Hewitt had told us, Muss Dorothy’s was hers to do with as she wished, whereas that of her elder sister was tied up more stringently, nor could it be willed away.

Mr. McFeddon looked up at that point, addressing Miss Dorothy. “What do you know of the lady who is to inherit the capital sum after your sister?”

She recounted her knowledge of that family scandal and Mr. McFeddon nodded. “Quite so. Does your sister know this?” She nodded. “I see. Has she ever mentioned her feeling upon this to you?”

Miss Dorothy hesitated, then nodded again. Mr. McFeddon waited, and at last she spoke.

“I did not know the provisions, but very recently Heather found out in some way and told me. She was violently resentful. She said that the girl was not truly family, that our father had no right to leave her—that is, my sister’s—money away from her. She should have the same right to will away the capital as I did. Then she laughed and said that there were more ways than one to reach any place and she’d find them. I have no idea what she meant by that and did not ask.”

The elderly lawyer pressed the tips of his fingers together and pursed his lips. “I fear I must now tell you what she meant. Four years ago—three years after your father’s death—your mother came to me and requested officially and in writing that her daughter, Heather Bewden, be permitted to receive a portion of her capital. There was provision for this in your father’s instructions, intended as a precaution should money be desperately needed for some particular purpose. I was away at the time, taking instructions from an infirm client. My junior partner read the will most carefully and felt that the request was within what was permitted, and agreed.”

His look was thunderous. “He not only allowed this to be done, he misread the will’s conditions, construing them as merely requiring the written assurances of Mrs. Bewden to permit this alteration in conditions. In consequence he informed the bank, and Miss Heather successfully liquidated and withdrew almost one half of her capital.” He drew a long, slow breath.

“I will be brief. On my return, I discovered what happened. I was unable to recover that disbursed capital, which had been deposited in a different bank—and could do nothing. I warned my junior partner most strongly not to permit such an event to reoccur, but two years ago I found myself in the same position. Mrs. Martha Bewden approached me with your sister and demanded the right, under the terms of the will, to withdraw a further amount of the capital. I refused, saying they must convince me that the will’s conditions were fulfilled.” Here he paused, and as far as any long-time experienced lawyer could, evinced chagrin.

“Miss Heather then told me a story that convinced me she was being blackmailed. The story was one which would so blacken the name of her family that, should it be widely known, she must take extreme action, and the reputations of you and your mother would be utterly ruined. I was horrified, and feeling there was little other choice, agreed that she might withdraw a further thirty percent of her capital. She took that and later returned to me, showing certain papers that appeared to uphold her story.”

Holmes leaned forward. “How true was it?”

Mr. McFeddon drew himself up behind his desk. “Not one word of it, sir. Not a single word—as I discovered only a few weeks gone. The papers were genuine, but they related to another woman. Miss Heather said she acted under a false name, and the papers she showed me were hers under that name. Considering what she claimed, I did not consider it possible that any decent woman would be so lost to propriety as to admit such a story had it not occurred and she, in consequence, was utterly desperate.”

His hand on the desk had an almost unnoticeable tremor; the lawyer was in the grip of soul-shaking professional outrage and personal fury at being so deceived. I caught his gaze and shook my head. He nodded and let go of his anger, as much as he was able.

Miss Dorothy reached out and gently took his hand.

“Mr. McFeddon, you must not blame yourself. You had little to do with my sister and you did not know the lengths to which she will go to achieve her goal. She will do anything, tell any lie, endure any hardship, if only she can have her way.” She looked at Hewitt imploringly. “Tell him, Charles. He needs to know.”

Charles Hewitt, thus adjured, cleared his throat and spoke up manfully. He was brief, he used circumlocutions, and he left portions to our imagination, but we all understood.

It was a sordid little story. Two years ago, at the height of her determination to marry him, Miss Heather came to his small apartment late one night. It was, to say the least, unconventional. Hewitt, who had been discussing business with his foreman, asked the man to retire to the bedroom while he persuaded the woman to leave before she was compromised.

Believing they were alone, she flung herself at him as soon as he opened the door. She then, with little finesse, suggested he should now marry her, else she would claim he asked her to come on business and then seduced her. Hewitt, furious, called his foreman to join him as a witness that his supposed would-be wife was a liar and trickster. At which point Miss Heather, baulked of her purpose, said he better marry her else she would claim they attacked her and she would see them both ruined and imprisoned.

Hewitt looked at us. “I pointed out that my door was wide open, that if she did not leave at once it would be I who called for the police and a doctor to swear she suffered no assault. I said she was never to approach me again if I were alone, never to speak more than commonplaces to me in the company of others, and should I hear she ever spoke of this event, I would bring suit against her and expose her character to everyone in Bartlett.” His face reddened. “I disliked saying this, but it appeared the only way of speaking that she understood. Believe me, gentlemen. I made myself very clear and I know it, since she has done as I demanded from that day on.”

Mr. McFeddon’s face gradually cleared and now he nodded. “I see. Yes, that explains a number of things. She took those events and wove them, with the papers she obtained, to produce a believable tale with which to cozen the money from her account.”

I was caught up in all this and now asked the question that gnawed at me. “How did you discover she lied and that the papers were not hers?”

Mr. McFeddon smiled frostily. “A friend’s daughter works at the small charity hospital here. On a recent visit when her father and I were, unbeknown to her, in earshot, she told her mother of a sad case she had nursed. It reminded me strangely of Miss Heather’s claims. I investigated, found that the case notes were missing from the hospital, and realized that the papers I had seen were these notes with the name and age changed. Should anyone read them, neither woman would be identified. I was cheated, gentlemen, but I could not decide what to do about it, nor how I should act.”

“You could aid us,” Holmes suggested.

“So I have concluded,” agreed Mr. McFeddon,

“Then tell us of the will’s provisions as they relate to the lady.”

The lawyer nodded and, looking down at the spread-out documents, began again to read.

And in the end it was simple. There, clearly laid out, was a motive for the death, not only of Mrs. Martha Bewden, but also of Miss Dorothy. Latimer Bewden had become increasingly doubtful of his elder daughter’s suitability to have access to any large sums and of the safely of those about her. In a letter to be read in court should it ever be needful, Latimer Bewden listed a series of occasions when his elder daughter
deliberately endangered the life of her younger sibling. To those he added another case, which brought Miss Dorothy to anguished protest.

That lady could barely believe it. “But Mother said she had mistakenly opened the wrong bottle,” she protested, close to tears. “She was terribly ill. I was only eleven, but I remember the doctor saying Mother almost died. She kept saying she’d just made a mistake, and it was her own fault.”

Mr. McFeddon read from the letter. That missive made it clear that not only had the writer’s wife not made the error, but that, taxed with it by a father angrier than she had ever seen before, Miss Heather admitted her mother’s illness was her doing—a deliberate poisoning to punish her mother for giving Miss Dorothy something her sister had wanted for herself, demanded, and been refused.

Slowly, deliberately, the lawyer picked up the main document again and read out a provision. “And finally, in the event of my wife’s death, both the property of Onley and all that main account intended to provide support and upkeep for Onley, including the provision of servants, maintenance, such livestock as may be wished, and the possible purchase and inclusion of immediate and adjacent small amounts of land, are to devolve upon my younger daughter, Miss Dorothy Bewden.”

Miss Dorothy gasped, but said nothing and the lawyer continued. “However, should she become convinced before my wife’s death that my wife is no longer able, by means of mental or physical infirmity, or because of pressure brought to bear upon her by any person whether of the family or not, that said wife is unable to deal justly with the property or monies in the account, then that duty is to devolve upon Miss Dorothy Bewden, her word alone being sufficient for this decision and it shall immediately be acted upon by whatever lawyer or lawyers are the estate legal advisers at that time.”

Mr. McFeddon took a breath. “Furthermore, upon the death of Mrs. Martha Bewden, said account and property shall in all respects be inherited by Miss Dorothy Bewden absolutely, without let or restraint, since my confidence and trust in her, and my discoveries concerning various actions by others, lead me to believe that this is the best outcome for certain members of the family and for those who depend upon the estate. This bequest to include all jewelry owned by my wife at the time of her death, all portable items within Onley, and any other chattels such as live- or dead stock, vehicles, bric-a-brac or objects d’art she may wish to retain. In short, all that is not the direct and personal property of Miss Heather Bewden, any conflict to be settled by Miss Dorothy Bewden’s stated decision given in writing.”

His voice died away and for moment we sat there, like a line of stuffed owls in a glass case, large-eyed and close-mouthed.

It was the lady who broke that stunned trance.

“He left everything to me,” she said wonderingly. “Onley, all the money, Mother’s jewelry …. Heather can’t send the Chisholms away, she can’t take over the main account.” And then, to Holmes: “But if Mother is dead, I inherit, and what good is that to Heather?”

“No good at all, Miss Dorothy. But why should you say your mother is dead? Your sister says your mother is on holiday. It is true we have been unable to find her thus far, but what is that to the law? Until your mother is proven to be dead, she is alive, and the authority she wrote for your sister upon the estate’s main account stands, unless challenged by you.”

His tone had been provoking and she stiffened, turning to Mr. McFeddon.

“Am I able to do that?”

“You are. If you so instruct I shall apply to the court for transfer of authority, citing the will’s provisions, and saying that ‘mental or physical infirmity’ must surely cover a prolonged absence where the person is not able to be found after inquiry, and that her actions during that absence suggest a disordered mind.” His smile was prim and lawyerly. “Your mother is, of course, always free to return and repudiate such allegations. But to refute them she must appear before the court, and until such time as she does, should the court grant your application, it would stand.”

“Heather can’t do anything?”

“If you mean by that, can she have the decision revoked without your mother being present? No, she cannot. And should she produce your mother alive, your mother would then have to explain her actions, and should she not do so to the court’s satisfaction, they may consider the provisions of your father’s will in that regard to continue.” He regarded her over the top of his pince-nez. “However, considering the incidents recorded in your father’s letter, I would be most cautious.”

I nodded at that. “Yes. Miss Dorothy has already had an attack made upon her.”

“What?” Mr. McFeddon was shaken out of his calm.

The lady recounted the event and, upon its conclusion, Holmes intervened. “There remains a problem.”

The lawyer looked at him. “And that is?”

“The present disposition of Mrs. Martha Bewden. As it stands, should the court grant Miss Dorothy’s rights under her father’s will, these remain temporary. Indeed, they remain that way until or unless death is proven or Mrs. Bewden returns. This could leave matters in limbo for as much as ten years. Can you guard Miss Dorothy for so long?”

“We can marry,” Hewitt suggested. “We plan to do so in any case.”

“Marry, and Miss Heather will go at once to court, saying it is all a plot, that you persuaded her sister into court and thence to marriage to gain a fine property and a large sum of money. She may not win, but she will raise such a scandal as may harm both you and the business.”

Hewitt scoffed. “To go to law requires money. If she has access to none, where is she to find a competent lawyer?”

Mr. McFeddon frowned. “What makes you say so, Mr. Hewitt? The lady is not short of money. Indeed, aside from the amount left by her father, from which she has gained access to almost all the capital, she has other monies.”

Even Holmes looked up at that. Nowhere in any discussion had we heard such information.

The lawyer appeared mildly surprised as he addressed Miss Dorothy. “Where you not aware that Miss Wilkins made a will leaving everything to your sister?”

“I was not. Heather never told me, and I heard no talk of it,” was the reply.

“Strange, but then it is possible no one was in a position to know,” Mr. McFeddon said thoughtfully. “I knew, since Miss Wilkins was a client of my junior partner. But neither of us would have spoken of that. Her gardener—one of the witnesses—was a man who worked casually for a number of elderly ladies, and her death would have had little importance to him. Nor would he have been in a position to know who inherited the house. The other witness,” he added, “was an itinerant who can be found, if need be.”

“What of the inside staff?” I asked.

“Her elderly maid at once retired and moved to Brighton. She left immediately after the funeral, which was both quiet and limited in attendance. There was also a cook. She left even before the funeral, and I have no idea where she went. The housemaid was from somewhere in London, a girl lacking in intelligence, from some orphans’ home I believe, and so far as I recall, she too was gone before the funeral.”

“Did any of them receive a bequest?” Holmes inquired.

“All three of the women. The maid had an annuity long since secured to her upon her employer’s death, while both the cook and the housemaid had a not-uncommon inheritance of a month’s salary for each year they had been employed, so long as they were not under notice. Neither were there long. They inherited, if I recall correctly, a month’s salary each, which Miss Heather paid in cash to facilitate their desire for immediate departure.”

“And everything else was inherited by my sister?”

“It was,” Mr. McFeddon informed her. “However, the house was in considerable need of repair, and the grounds were neither extensive nor particularly well-kept. I remember my partner saying he wondered why the gardener was paid, since he didn’t appear to do much work. There were the usual items such as furniture, ornaments and personal effects, but nothing of value.”

Holmes nodded. “How long did it take for the property to be sold, and what was paid—if you can answer those questions without breaching any confidences?”

“Ah, well, considering all you have told me and what was contained in Latimer Bewden’s letter, I think I may answer. One moment, I must obtain the file.”

He vanished for a short time and returned with a small strongbox, which he opened, removing a number of papers. These he disposed about his desk, referring to them as he talked.

“Here is the will. It left everything of which the testator died possessed, after the minor bequests, to Miss Heather Bewden ‘in view of her great and continuing kindness to me, and since I have no family yet living.’”

Further information showed the property successfully sold only days after the death of Miss Wilkins to a London merchant who wanted a property, not too large, but in just that position in the countryside, and who was not worried that it needed repair. In fact, he said so in a letter that formed his offer to buy, adding in a chatty manner that his wife would enjoy refurbishing the place without having to keep any original atmosphere or accoutrements.

I smiled at that, an expression promptly wiped from my face when the amount paid was read by Mr. McFeddon.

“My dear sir, you must be wrong! How could the place be worth that?” I demanded.

I was fixed by an offended Scottish glare. “Because, my dear sir,” was the acid reply, “that property was Miss Wilkins’s. However, she also had the disposal of another, one from her grandmother. That was occupied by a nearby family under a long-term agreement. But on Miss Wilkins’s death she could will away the agreement, and as at that time the lease had expired, the annual rent could be raised by a percentage.”

“Which was done?” Holmes asked.

“It was. There were major conditions, and Miss Heather was able, after a short discussion, to sell the lease to the current owners. They, naturally, will not raise the amount again. In effect, they purchased permanent ownership of their land so long as they continue to pay one half of the lease amount to the charity named by the grandmother. And once the current lease runs out, they will be required to pay only that percentage and no more. By her sale of her right to dispose, Miss Heather was able to bargain for half of the next ninety-nine-year lease. The amount paid annually being one hundred pounds, her half amounted to almost five thousand pounds, as I have stated.”

“Why would she do that?” I demanded, but it was Holmes who
answered.

“The lady is thirty. In ninety-nine years it is unlikely in the extreme that she will be alive. What need does she have for an on-going lease?”

I understood now. “She gained five thousand pounds to invest or spend, and at once. Both sides must have seen it as an excellent bargain.”

Mr. McFeddon smiled frostily. “The Mastersons assuredly did. As for the lady, it was reasonable. But you do see that she has more money than you knew.”

“Yes,” said Holmes slowly. “She does. Money gives flexibility. It can shut mouths, bend laws, and alter opinions.” He stood, decision in his voice and manner. “We are for Bodmin first thing in the morning, Watson. I have questions to ask there, and I shall have answers. Will you accompany me?”

To which I could make only one reply.

“Of course.”

“Good man.”

Hewitt stood. “I shall go with you.” And to the woman at his side: “Stay here, my dear. Very quietly start a case to gain authority over your mother’s money. It may be needed, and it is better to waste no time if we find nothing.”

She looked to Holmes, who nodded. “Very well, Charles. I shall do as you say.” To the lawyer: “Will you act for me? And can such a case be kept from the general public and my sister for as long as possible?”

Mr. McFeddon’s lips tightened. “No one here shall speak of it. I can talk to the court officers, and I think it likely they will remain silent. I cannot silence everyone forever, but I may be able to give you a week, if no more.”

“Then you know what needs to be said and done. If you will obtain the papers now, I’ll return tomorrow and sign whatever must be signed.”

He nodded. I opened the door and we trooped out of the office, along the corridor, and out onto the pavement. We silently walked back to Hewitt’s business. Once we were within his office with the door shut and in some privacy, he turned to Miss Dorothy, his face, for the first time I had seen it so, warm with open affection as he regarded her. It was clear that this was a love match.

I smiled, for it seemed the lady’s expectations were the least of her attractions; that was excellent. It also disposed of my suspicions of Charles Hewitt.

He spoke softly. “This may not be the way I should do it, but while I am gone, I would like to know you have the protection of my name.” He produced a small, rubbed, red-leather box from a pocket. “This was my great-grandmother’s betrothal ring. Miss Dorothy, will you do me the honor of receiving this as a promise of marriage between us? You may put it aside unworn for now, if you think that best, but will you accept it from me now, before these witnesses?”

Her face glowed with happiness as she took the ring, finding that it fitted well. The large central emerald glowed in the sunlight, the side diamonds cast small rainbows as the stones coruscated in the light. She bent her head over it and, I think, shed a tear or two, although she was dry-eyed again when she looked up.

“I accept your ring, Charles.” Her voice was soft. “And I accept all that it means. However, I shall not wear it until your return.” Her voice became passionate. “Find my mother, bring her back to me, or bring me news of what befell her. I must know. I cannot act fairly until I do.” And to Holmes: “You are a great man and I trust you. Find Mother or tell me where she lies, and by whose hand.”

I took her hand. “Miss Dorothy, we shall.”

We parted then, Holmes and I to return to town, Hewitt to escort his lady to Onley. He would take a later train to London, a hotel room for the night, and join us next morning for the much longer trek to Cornwall.

The game was afoot, as Holmes says, and I wondered if we would indeed find the answers promised. Or would we draw empty coverts, find only tenantless earths? Would the horns of the hunt ring in vain?

I slept.

12

We boarded the train early. The scenery rushed by while I sat in silence watching it and thinking. Holmes glanced at me after two hours.

“I have a task for you, Watson, if you will. I would like you to go to see Storringe and ask if they have found any unidentified bodies on Bodmin Moor. Not those discovered in the last week or two, but any brought in from as early as ten weeks ago.”

I turned in my seat. “What are you about, Holmes? That’s even before Mrs. Bewden went on holiday.”

“I am aware of that. Will you do as I request?”

“Of course,” I said hastily. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes, you may omit men from the list, also children. But I want all that is known about any adult female, no matter her apparent age, station in life, or cause of death. The sole criteria are that they are female, adult, unidentified, and were found on or in proximity to the moor.”

I signified that I understood and went back to musing, only now I was trying to decide what was in my friend’s mind with this request. Did he imagine that Mrs. Bewden had wandered off onto the moor and died there? But she would have some form of identification, and she went missing well after the date he specified. Her clothing should make it clear to any competent policeman that she was of a class where a member would be missed.

The train clacked its way to the next station and my thoughts turned to London. You could be easily lost in that great city, but in Cornwall, far thinner of population, the total disappearance of someone was less likely. Although, I daresay, now and again some tramp, someone without family or caring friends could vanish, never to be seen again, and without inquiry being made.

Time slipped by. We talked now and again, ate our lunches, made and packed by Mrs. Hudson, and at length the train halted at Bodmin and we alighted. Grubby, weary, hungry, and eager for surcease from the constant rhythm of the train wheels that gets into your head after so long so that even when it stops, you still seem to hear it.

We went to the hotel, took a small suite, shared a pleasant dinner and went early to bed. I lay awake briefly, considering how to approach Inspector Storringe, but fell asleep before I could decide.

I woke to the resolution that the best thing I could do was to tell him my orders and leave it up to him.

Breakfast was more convivial. We were re-energized by a peaceful night and Hewitt was eager to begin. “What am I to do, Mr. Holmes?”

“I would like you to re-interview Mrs. Bewden’s last landlord, Jack Bargate. Take him to drink at the inn where, so it is said, Mrs. Bewden purchased brandy. Talk to Bargate and to the proprietor there, a Mr. Bill Lenham. Get them talking, let them relax and be comfortable with you, and without making your intent obvious, find out everything you can about the woman they knew as Martha Bewden. The slightest thing, the most minute detail. Mine them, Mr. Hewitt, as if you sought gold.”

His lips tightened resolutely. “I shall do so. Nothing will escape me.”

“Good.” Holmes devoured the last of his bacon and turned to me. “You know what to do, Watson. As for me, I have other inquiries to make. I hope to be back here for dinner at six. I shall see you both then, or whenever you have completed your own tasks.”

We went our ways and it was, as Holmes had expected, quite six before I returned to the hotel, bathed and dressed. I was about to descend to the dining-room when Holmes and Hewitt both arrived. Hewitt suggested that we dine in the suite and with our agreement, rang for the menu. We ordered, whiled away the time in comfortable argument on the merits of living in a city as against in the country, and fell upon the meal once it arrived. We ate, the dishes were removed, and with a decent bottle to drink at our leisure, glasses for that, and a fire on the hearth, we settled to serious business.

Hewitt led off. “I found nothing to my knowledge,” he said, sounding downcast. “I bought the two men drink and they drank until I was surprised they did not fall from their seats. They became very merry, however, and were quite willing to speak of the lady so long as I was paying.” His smile was wry. “I questioned them from every angle I could think of, and inquired on every aspect. Nothing they told me varied from the information given to you.”

He chuckled. “Although it does seem the Bodmin air did Mrs.
Bewden—if Mrs. Bewden it really was—much good.”

“You think it was not Mrs. Bewden?” Holmes queried.

Hewitt frowned. “Everything says it was, yet I never knew her to drink, not so much a drop. I still cannot believe—for any evidence—that the woman I knew would take so much brandy as the man, Lenham, says he sold her. It is not as though she bought it for another. You and Watson here found the emptied bottles where she had been living. And yet I am unable to accept it.”

Holmes nodded. “You say the Bodmin air did her good? Of course, she was not well, that is why she is said to have come here for a holiday. But why in particular do you think the air good for her? Did she make that claim? Or was she perhaps more sprightly in her step?”

Hewitt laughed. “That’s it. Lenham said that when the lady was walking away that last time and she seemed lighter of foot. He thought all that brandy must finally be doing her some good. ‘Quite the high-stepper,’ he told me. ‘As if her bag didn’t weigh nothing, and she couldn’t wait to get home with it.’ That’s another thing makes me think it wasn’t Mrs. Bewden. She walked—well, not plodding, but with a firm step. Dorothy said once her mother always walked as if she wished to be sure of her footing.”

I broke in. “Yes, that’s a good way of putting it. However, it could be she had taken the last of the brandy before she came out to buy more—that would explain the lightness of her step.”

“But that is what I am saying,” Hewitt pointed out. “She was most unlikely to have drunk anything whatsoever. It was not in her character.”

I sat back. It was a reasonable theory I advanced, but the fact of the matter was that he appeared right. Neither Holmes nor I uncovered the slightest item of evidence that even suggested the lady drank. I have been a doctor for some time, and it is not impossible for a person who has reason to take to drink where they have never done so before. What is unusual is for someone who does not drink because they loathe the taste of liquor to abruptly begin to drink to excess. That, having occurred to me, I at once asked it of Hewitt.

He chuckled. “I do not know how you knew that, but yes. It is as you say. I suppose that was at the back of my mind when I resisted the idea so strongly. Mrs. Bewden once told me she could not bear the taste of anything with alcohol, that to her it tasted of spoiled vinegar.”

“Ah,” I said softly, repeating my earlier thought to my companions.

“You think it was not Mrs. Bewden who drank the brandy,” Holmes stated. “Your opinion is that, while she might outrage her deeply-held beliefs, she would not so ill-treat her taste-buds.”

His tones were neutral, but for some reason I fired up. “Yes, I do think that. People can more easily convince themselves to break a belief than to force down bottle after bottle of something so evil-tasting that every mouthful is sickening. And if the lady did find it so, then she would have reacted physically when imbibing such large amounts. Did you see such signs, Holmes?”

He faced me. “Watson, you mistake me, I do not doubt your medical opinion—indeed, I agree with you. You have added another straw upon the scales, that is all. Now, you have had a long and tiring day. Tell us what you uncovered.”

I made a gesture of apology and began. “There are five bodies held by Storringe’s police surgeon as officially unidentified. One is almost certainly the husband of one of those women claiming to have lost their man on the moor. The surgeon is waiting for the man’s records from his previous doctor and, as the doctor recently retired, it is taking some time for them to arrive. However, the surgeon is confident that once he has the file, he will be in a position to prove the corpse’s identity. Nor is there any question of cause of death—the man died from a fall and was found where that occurred, with all injuries consistent.”

I saw Holmes about to remind me that neither men nor children were part of my brief and I hastened to cut him off. “Of the remaining bodies, two were women. Both of around late middle age or older, poorly dressed, without anything to identify them. No women of their descriptions were reported missing. A number of people looked at the bodies; however, none were able to say who they were. Of the causes of death, both are known. I have seen the reports. One died from cold and malnutrition. The other from the effects of prolonged drinking.”

Holmes sat considering that for a time before rousing to ask. “Their descriptions?”

“Quite similar. They both appeared to be around sixty, although that could be because of the way they lived. Both were about five foot three or four, and both had medium coloring, with brown hair.”

“Their eye color, Watson?”

“Birds,” I said briefly, and saw myself understood.

“Hands and feet?”

“As to the hands, it could not be stated with any authority. Foxes,” I added. “But the feet, being protected, were another matter. One woman had feet that were at least medium size, while the other had small feet. Small even for a woman, the surgeon said.”

Hewitt sat straighter. “Mrs. Bewden was known for her small hands and feet,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” my friend commented. “It is one of the things I have taken into account. You have done well, Watson, but I need more. Can you obtain the surgeon’s records as to how and why he determined cause of death? Is the body still available?”

“Yes and no,” I informed him. “I think he will make no difficulty in my borrowing his records, but the woman was buried in a pauper’s grave several weeks ago.”

“Then she must be exhumed.”

“That may be protested.”

Holmes shook his head. “I see no reason why that should be. You say she was unidentified, hence there are no relatives to object. If we are prepared to pay the cost involved, I think there can be no complaint. See to it, if you will. It should be done as swiftly as can be arranged. Then, if you can borrow police facilities, I would wish you to re-examine the body.”

“For what?”

“For the true cause of death. And after, depending on your findings, the body must be placed in a coffin that will allow it to be removed from Bodmin.”

I groaned. “A fine job all of that will be. All right, I’ll go and make myself unpopular with the authorities first thing in the morning. What will you be doing?”

“Returning to Lanivell. I want to talk further with Mrs. Pentree, and Hewitt shall go to the bank and ask a few questions of Messers Polgat and Symonds.”

“And after that?”

“We shall return to Bartlett, possibly with the Inspector,” was all Holmes said, but I was satisfied.

I know my friend, and I was of the opinion that he now thought he had almost all the threads from which to weave a solution—and perhaps a rope.

* * *

I found the police surgeon and others of the local court quite
cooperative. We had the body exhumed, and together with the surgeon I investigated it most carefully. I agreed that the unknown woman appeared to have died from the effects of prolonging drinking, yet there was something that nagged at my memory.

When I realized what it was, I took up a scalpel and opened one of the organs, confirming my theory. Holmes would be fascinated, and I could only ponder how the killer knew of this effect. I showed the surgeon, discussed with him what I knew, and found him in agreement.

After that I wended my way back to the hotel and found Holmes returned, whereupon I disclosed to him all I learned.

“Watson, you really do listen when I lecture you on some subject dear to me,” was his rejoinder.

I laughed. “Most times, Holmes. And after all, this was in my field, so I listened and remembered, and today I was glad of it.”

“Yes, it completes the case. My little talk and your memory is the last strand in the rope that will hang her.”

“But how on earth did she learn of it, Holmes?”

“A scientist may have relatives,” Holmes said, and turned as Hewitt entered the suite.

Our companion slumped into a chair. “I found nothing, I learned nothing, and I heard nothing of use, save that Symonds did prove he knew whereof he talked. And you?”

“We are returning to Bartlett in the morning,” Holmes told him. “Watson found the last thing required.”

“You have her?”

“To which ‘her’ do you refer, Mr. Hewitt? If you mean by that, do we have the body of Mrs. Martha Bewden, then I believe so.”

“Ah,” Hewitt’s sigh was heartfelt. “You have her body. If you know how she died, can you bring home a crime to its perpetrator?”

“I have some hopes in that direction.”

“Then I am ready to go home.”

“Excellent,” Holmes said dryly. “Because Watson and I shall be on our way in a few hours. I intend to catch the milk-train to London, so I would suggest you eat now, go to bed immediately thereafter, and endeavor to get some sleep before we depart.”

* * *

I did as Holmes instructed and, fortunately, slept well, although I saw Hewitt was still heavy-eyed. We boarded the train, the coffin was loaded, and the train chugged its way towards London while Hewitt and I drowsed in our seats.

Each time I opened my eyes I was aware of my friend, sunk in contemplation—of the case, I assumed—plaiting together the strands that would lead to that final walk which ends in a short fall and eternal silence.

We disembarked in London close to lunchtime, the coffin placed in temporary storage with an undertaker of Holmes’s acquaintance. We ate at a nearby restaurant and, being somewhat refreshed, repossessed the coffin, and found our train to Bartlett. We and our unwieldy baggage item continued on to that town.

Once there we were met by Inspector Storringe, two officers from Bartlett, Miss Dorothy, an undertaker’s hearse, the undertaker and his men, and Miss Dorothy’s lawyer. All was hustle and bustle for a period until the coffin was removed, along with its attendants, to the local funeral parlor. We climbed into one of the police vehicles, leaving Hewitt to join his fiancée in her small car.

The line of vehicles set out. I hoped all went well in our absence and Miss Dorothy’s sister was at Onley and not yet on her guard.

She was. She appeared at the front door, the terrier, Robbie, at her heels. Miss Dorothy ushered us, the lawyer, and the officers into the house.

“Who … why … Dorothy, what is the meaning of this? How dare you fill my home with strangers.”

“We have found Mother.”

Hewitt obviously spent the car journey telling her of our discoveries. The lady was naturally deeply distressed, yet she controlled that emotion well.

“You … you found Mother?” Miss Heather’s face was ghastly for a moment before she recovered. “Oh, how wonderful! Where is she? Did she explain where she has been?”

“She has said nothing,” she was informed by Miss Dorothy—with complete truth.

“How unfortunate, but I’m sure she will confide in me. Where is she?”

“She remains in town for the present. Let us all go into the drawing-room where we can discuss events.”

With that she moved ahead, opening the door. We trooped in, seated ourselves, and endured the unpleasant look Miss Heather cast us all, a compound of anger and dislike. Both cats entered and they too were now seated, one as before on Miss Dorothy’s lap, but the other chose to honor me with its presence. The small dog was quietly prevented from joining us, while Holmes saw Miss Heather placed in a low armchair furthest from the door.

Miss Dorothy waited until we were seated, and indicated my friend. “Some time ago I was told that my mother had gone on holiday. She did not tell me so herself, and when, after weeks without communication from her I became anxious, I turned to Mr. Holmes to uncover my mother’s whereabouts.”

Her sister glared. “I told you she went on holiday to Cornwall. I showed you her letter.”

“No, you told me of a letter. As you told me she went on holiday. You also said you did not know precisely where in that county she was, and you would say no more. Therefore, I acted. Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes rose to his feet and described our investigations. How we traced the missing lady first to the village of Lanivell, then to Bodmin, and how we lost the trail there. He complimented the Inspector on his cooperation, knowledge of his area, and noted that if it were proven any crime was committed in Cornwall, it would fall to the Inspector to arrest, charge, and see prosecuted the criminal responsible.

Through all Miss Heather’s face remained blank and she began to relax again. I thought she did not yet see any great danger, convinced as she was of her superiority.

“However, I had a theory,” Holmes stated quietly. “I came to believe Mrs. Bewden never reached Lanivell. The woman seen and believed to be Mrs. Bewden was not, in fact, that person. Several reasons support this. In Lanivell, the bank clerk described Mrs. Bewden. He said her hands were small but she wore medium-sized shoes, describing them as being perhaps a five, and while not more, certainly not much smaller. He has a number of women in his immediate family and, when questioned more recently, proved he knew the difference in ladies’ shoe sizes. In addition, two different witnesses described the supposed Mrs. Bewden as moving in a ‘youthful or sprightly manner,’ a description no one who knows her would use.”

He turned to Miss Dorothy. “Why did your mother not drink?”

She appeared surprised. “Mother never did. She hated the taste of alcohol. She said even a mouthful of anything containing alcohol made her feel ill.”

“Therefore, when we uncovered the place supposedly rented by Mrs. Bewden and found it filled with emptied bottles of brandy, again I thought this the trail of an imposter,” Holmes told us.

“My theory is that a woman travelled to Cornwall with Mrs. Bew-den. They left a day earlier than was known and, far from alighting in Lanivell, they went on to Bodmin. There, leaving Mrs. Bewden’s case at the station, they walked towards the moor. I do not know what threats or inducements were offered to accomplish this, but on reaching the moor, the companion locked Mrs. Bewden into a stout hut in a dip on a rougher area of the moor, one which is rarely frequented.”

Miss Heather produced a sound of indignation. “Utter nonsense. Why are we being told this tale?”

“I am telling you what I found,” Holmes said, evenly. “On my last day in Bodmin, I found the hut. Within it I dug up this.” He produced a small gold powder case. “The lady must have had it loose in her pocket. She did not have paper or pencil to write her woes, however the case has her initials and has been identified. She would know she was dying not many hours after being abandoned in that desolate place. I think she hoped that by leaving this, someone might uncover the truth. She lay there all that night, and sometime during those black hours, she died. Meanwhile, her companion went on to Lanivell, rented a cottage there, and left again, allowing her landlady to believe her yet present. She was able to withdraw money from Mrs. Bewden’s account.”

“Which the bank will refund if that’s true,” Miss Heather snapped.

I thought from her tones she was at last beginning to see danger for herself in this account.

“It is true,” Holmes assured her, and resumed. “The companion then packed the case and moved on to Bodmin, where that night she visited the hut, undressed the body, and re-dressed it in clothing of poor quality. Gathering everything that might lead to identification, she returned to Mr. Bargate’s cottage and proceeded to establish Mrs. Bewden’s character as a drunkard and a hypocrite. A woman who, while pretending never to touch alcohol, drank secretly in large amounts. If the body should ever be identified, it would be assumed that she died of drink. As it initially was.”

His last four words were almost a bark and Miss Heather jumped slightly. Her eyes glowed with rage and growing fear.

“The companion planned a defense in depth,” Holmes commented. “If she does not play chess, she yet knows the principle. She did not intend the body to be identified as Mrs. Bewden’s. But should that happen, the police surgeon’s report—that the lady died from the effects of drink—would be accepted, the more so as others could say she several times purchased large amounts of brandy, and the empty bottles were found in her cottage.”

By now everyone present save Hewitt and I, who knew most of this, were hanging on the tale. Step by step Holmes traced out the crime, never once referring to Mrs. Bewden’s murderer by name, but circling the subject, drawing closer and closer.

“How did the companion know about Bodmin, Lanivell, and the hut on the moor? She has a friend with whom she often stays a night or two. That friend has another, a native of Cornwall, familiar with all these places. It was she who, when she too was visiting and when their mutual friend was busy, told the companion of her family and where they lived. She talked of shepherds’ huts, and of one she knew. And the companion heard and remembered it all. Mrs. Bewden has a painting of the moor hanging here on the wall behind me.” Everyone turned to stare at the landscape.

“That was purchased by her husband on their honeymoon. Perhaps this first suggested possibilities to the companion, and the friend’s chatter added to that. Perhaps the painting itself suggested something, and the friend’s knowledge was more deliberately sought out. I do not know.”

I observed the corners of Miss Heather’s lips curve in the slightest of reminiscent smiles, and I saw, too, that the Inspector noted it.

“These were the questions I asked myself,” Holmes told us. “Could the Mrs. Bewden we pursued have been an imposter from the beginning? If the genuine Mrs. Bewden was dead, where was her body? If it had been found, why had it not been identified? That was the companion’s intent. Firstly, that Mrs. Bewden should be absent for a long time before doubts were raised as to her whereabouts. Secondly, that she die long before she was missed and be securely buried. Thirdly, that she should not be identified. But fourthly, that if she were identified at some time, the cause of death would be accepted as a long-standing habit of secret drinking.”

The Inspector nodded. “That was what the surgeon said. Do you know different? If that is so, can it be proven?”

That was my cue. I carefully displaced the cat, rose to my feet and, with a broad grin at Holmes, paraphrased a portion of his original lecture, while the cat strolled over to sit by the door.

“There is a chemical, originally synthesized by the French chemist Henri Victor Regnault in 1839. After considerable scientific investigation, it has proved of use in extinguishing fires, and further studies are being made. However, it is dangerous. Should anyone inhale too much of this chemical it destroys organs in the body, and in a confined area over a span of mere hours, can cause death.”

The Inspector scowled. “So?”

“So,” I told him quietly. “To anyone unfamiliar with this chemical, the appearance of the person thus killed mimics that of someone who died from the effects of prolonged drinking. Save that they did not. They inhaled the chemical over a few hours, in a confined space, where every breath was poisonous. I re-examined the body of the woman found on the moor and, unlike your surgeon—no fault to him—opened one of the organs, whereupon I smelled the odor of carbon tetrachloride and knew it was not drink that killed the subject.”

The other cat, aware of the growing tension, slid from Miss Dorothy’s lap and joined its friend by the drawing-room door, where they sat, watching us.

From his seat Holmes added, “The companion found the friend of her friend a veritable goldmine on several subjects. That lady is the great niece of Henri Regnault and is justly proud of his discoveries. When asked, she stated she talked extensively both of Cornwall and of carbon tetrachloride to Mrs. Bewden’s companion. On oath she will admit she talked of the very real dangers of it, of how swiftly it could kill, and under what conditions. She is angered that her relation’s great discovery was misused, and I think she will be happy to give evidence.”

That was when I saw it: the knowledge in the murderess’s face that her gamble was lost—that all was known, and unless she could escape now, she would not escape the gallows later.

She was on her feet in a second and leaping for the door. One of the cats had stretched out, tail behind it, and on that appendage she trod as she wrenched open the door. The cat howled, sinking two sets of claws into the ankle conveniently to hand, while the other feline jumped to avoid the trampling feet. The would-be fugitive spun free of the claws, kicked at the first cat, tripped over the second as she dived through the doorway, and was seized by the Inspector in an iron grip, as he recited the usual formula.

His captive shrieked a protest. “You can’t prove anything. You can’t, you can’t! I’ll get the best lawyer.”

Miss Dorothy stood: grief, anger, and a painful disillusionment on her face. She walked across the room. “I would be next, wouldn’t I? You found out what father’s will said and you wanted it all. You wanted Onley, all the money, Charles … everything.”

At some point she had placed the emerald ring on her finger and she raised her hand. “Yes, Charles and I are to be married. Thanks to Mr. Holmes, I don’t have to invoke the conditions of father’s will now. We found Mother, we brought her home, and with her death proven, I inherit. I already made a new will, so you lost all you gambled to win. Goodbye, Heather. I will not see you again, nor shall I release money to you from the estate.”

The Inspector had only time to tighten his grip before he was holding a frothing, fighting madwoman who screamed epithets no lady should know. Between wordless shrieks, she swore in the coarsest terms to be avenged on everyone present. She was removed, the threats and cries dying away as the front door shut behind her, and we were left in a shocked silence.

That was the end of the mystery of the misplaced mother. Mrs. Martha Bewden was buried in the family lot in Bartlett. Three months later Miss Dorothy Bewden wed Mr. Charles Hewitt in a quiet ceremony, only his family attending, beaming their approval. The couple plans to reside at Onley where the bride cares for a pony, a donkey, a small dog—who seems not to miss his former owner—and two cats, while the Chisholms remain as gardener/chauffeur and housekeeper.

The missing jewelry was found under a loose floorboard in Miss Heather’s bedroom. It was never discovered for certain how she obtained the chemical she used, although Holmes had his own ideas.

“The great-niece, Watson. I am of the opinion she had a sample that the murderess stole. Naturally it was not something the woman wished to admit, lest it be said she facilitated the crime, and Miss Heather will not say how or where she obtained it.”

It was true Miss Heather did not say that. However, she said a great deal more that was to the point, making it clear that rancor and jealousy of her sister had festered for years, and in due course Miss Heather was tried, convicted, and sentenced to hang.

She did not make a good end, as we later heard, being carried to the gallows alternately screaming and fainting—with other unfortunate manifestations of her terror—and having to be sat in a chair for the noose to be put in place. But at such times the law is relentless, and the price determined must be paid, as it was.

As I write these words, I reflect that the case’s solution and conclusion were each satisfactory. The wicked were confounded, the righteous exulted. One woman died, yet she did so long before we were ever asked for aid, and about that we could do nothing. Would that all cases my friend investigates be so tidily completed.

There was one final discussion I vividly recall. We were eating breakfast a week after the execution and I remembered a question I wished to ask. “Holmes, did you ever learn how Miss Dorothy’s father died?”

“Yes, a heart attack.” His gaze met mine. “I know what you are thinking, Watson. I thought the same when the lawyer spoke of his client’s precautions against Miss Heather. That it may be, in protecting his daughter, he failed to see that he too was in danger. However, we will never know the truth.” I looked the question. “Cremation, Watson, covers a multitude of sins.”

I nodded and said no more.

* * *

All this happened some years ago, and I was undecided if I should write up the case. After all, I had my suspicions about the murderer from the beginning, despite Holmes’s enjoinders to keep an open mind. The case had interesting aspects: this was the first time this method was, to my knowledge, used to commit murder.

There is also the fact that until the last few days of our investigation we did not know for sure that a murder had been committed. Nor did we know when, or where, or how. So this case was the opposite of many, where we know who is dead, that they are dead, and we often know when and where. It is the murderer we do not know. For my own satisfaction I wrote up the case and agreed when my editor later asked to publish the story. The case was solved, and if the question was more how than who, that did not make a difference. What mattered was that justice was done. And in the end that is always what counts the most.

Dr. John Watson, M.D.

Baker Street, London, 19--