Mr. Sherlock Holmes finished lighting his pipe, and concluded by stating, “…and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon my conscience.” With that, he flipped his spent match out the window and into the warm April air of the English countryside.
Holmes was referring to his own recent actions, which had resulted just hours before in the death of a particularly evil man, and I could not disagree with him at all. We had only met the dead man once during his lifetime, but that was all that had been needed to size up the black-hearted villain. We had just spent a horrifying night, hiding in silence while waiting for a diabolical murder attempt to take place. The murderer’s scheme had been turned back on him, and he had fallen in the same agony and terror that he had caused for his first victim, and had attempted to impose on his second. The killer, one of the most grim and immoral men that Holmes and I had ever faced, was now dead himself, no doubt because of Holmes’s frantic and successful efforts to repel the lethal creature that had been sent to kill the dead man’s poor stepdaughter.
I had been grateful the previous night for the warm and dry spring weather, as we made our way in darkness from the local inn at Stoke Moran, and through the dense undergrowth of the neglected estate to the manor house. Now, however, the balmy air, along with the relaxation that inevitably arrives at the end of a tense adventure, threatened to put me to sleep.
We were returning from Harrow, where we had taken the unfortunate surviving stepdaughter to stay with her aunt, following the previous night’s events. The train was unusually crowded that morning with travelers going up to London. As we pulled into some small station in the vicinity of Sudbury Hill, I could see the press of humanity stepping toward the great resting beast, anxious to board before it renewed its relentless journey to the capital. I sighed and shifted. Holmes and I had been unable to get a private carriage, and I knew that we were about to have fellow sojourners joining us.
I was soon proved correct. The door opened to reveal a small middle-aged woman, who began to carefully step up into the compartment. Behind her was a large man with a case, wearing a slightly-too-small billy-cock which accentuated his red meaty face and great untrimmed moustache. He was quite impatient for the woman to get out of his way so that he could entrain as well.
I was amused to see that the woman paused for the smallest of instants, glancing back and forth from myself to Holmes. Her eyes narrowed when she observed his pipe. This helped to make her decision, as she turned to her left and sat down beside me. The large man took the opposite seat, settling in by Holmes, who glanced at me in wry amusement. The man put his oversized case on the floor behind his feet, and began to pat around his coat before pulling out the makings of a cigarette.
Beside me, the woman gave a small disapproving cough, as only the ladies can do, spurring the large man to glance up. She glared at the tobacco pouch in his hands with fierce yet concentrated subtlety, causing him to deflate somewhat and return it to whence it came. I knew that there was no prohibition on smoking in this compartment, and I wondered what Holmes would do when the lady inevitably turned her gaze upon him, and his recently-lit pipe.
As I expected, he ruefully smiled, nodded to her, and reached over to the window, knocking out the ashes and still-unburned tobacco onto the ground below. I hoped that gallantly surrendering to the woman’s wishes would not cause a track fire. As the door slammed shut and the guards’ whistles signaled our departure, Holmes returned the offending implement to its resting place underneath his Inverness.
Our strong-willed feminine companion did not feel the need to gloat over her victories. She simply turned and looked out the door to her right as the train resumed its movement towards London.
The large man, deprived of his stimulant, chose a different path and settled into an immediate doze, his face appearing to collapse around the fixed constant of its wild moustache. I envied him.
We rode in silence for some moments, and my feelings of drowsiness, due to the warm weather and the complete lack of sleep the night before, began to overtake me. Only the fear of appearing to be like the softly snoring bear across from me kept me awake at all, although I have no doubt that my struggles were visible to my other companions. Finally, as though taking pity on me, Holmes began a conversation that was certain to revive me.
“Do you believe in Providence, madam?” he asked the woman to my right.
She looked up sharply from whatever inner thoughts she had been pursuing, and frowned as might be expected, possibly fearing that she had stumbled into a nest of proselytizing zealots.
Holmes smiled, as if to dispense with her concern. Finally, as if deciding that he was harmless, or if not, that she was worthy to stand against him, she replied in a slight Scottish accent, “I do, but I also believe that the Good Lord expects us to help ourselves along the path of life when we are able.”
“Then,” replied Holmes, “you will be happy to learn that your efforts to assist the Divine Plan come to fruition have been successful, and you have been delivered to what, or rather whom, you seek. I am Sherlock Holmes.”
This odd statement made no sense to me at all, and the woman seemed as surprised as well for just a moment, before a look of comprehension led to a smile on her face. I would have been surprised that such a grim visage as she had first presented could warm so quickly and pleasantly. “I see that what I have been told about you is true, Mr. Holmes.”
“By your sister, no doubt.”
“Why, yes. How did you know? I have not been to visit her in a good five years.”
“But obviously you must regularly communicate with her, to have some knowledge of me,” replied Holmes.
“Certainly,” said the woman. “We are constant correspondents, and tales of your activities make up a substantial portion of her letters.”
“Yet you did not tell her that you were coming up today?”
“No, for I believed that she might discourage me. Again, how did you know?”
“Because Dr. Watson and I have obviously been away, and if you had notified your sister that you were coming to see us, she would have told you that we were not at home and had not let her know when we might be returning.”
“Wait,” I said, struggling to catch the discussion which had left me far behind. “Sister?” I looked more closely at our companion. “I think that I see it now. Are you Mrs. Hudson’s sister?”
“Yes, I am,” said the woman, a friendly smile now fully lighting her face, such a sharp contrast to the closed expression that she had previously assumed, one that all travelers wear during a journey at one time or another.
“The resemblance is obvious,” said Holmes, “the shape of the ears and eyes, and the skull, if you will forgive me for saying so, madam. The unique ways of speaking certain words, indicating a distinct northern regional dialect, only confirmed the matter once our conversation began. I’m sure if your hands were ungloved, there would be similarities there as well.”
“But how did you know to begin with?” asked the lady again. “That it was you that I was journeying to see?”
“It was no great feat, I assure you, and I’m rather loath to spoil the effect from such simple reasons. I had observed one of the papers protruding from your book,” said Holmes. “I can see from here that, along with your railway ticket, you have written in precise and artificially neat letters, ‘221 Baker Street’ on that long slip of yellow paper, no doubt to have at the ready, should you find a non-English-speaking cabbie at the train station. That, in itself, might indicate that you were simply going to visit your sister. However, below the address, and still partially tucked into the book, is what appears to be the top of a capital letter ‘S’, followed shortly by a capital “H” as well. As both these letters are also followed by what appears to be the tops of the other lower-case letters in my name, the conclusion was inescapable. And in addition, if you were simply going to visit your sister, you would not have needed to write out my name along with the address for the benefit of a cabbie.
“I must confess,” he added, “that modesty prevents me from elaborating on the fact that the particular address you have inscribed is generally known to many of the London cabbies who transport people needing my special skills and abilities.
“Thus, seeing that you had taken care to write it all out ahead of time, including what appeared to be my name, before departing on your journey, I made the conclusion that you were coming to consult me about some problem. I then made a closer examination of you, and was startled to see your quite notable resemblance to our good landlady. A rather circular series of confirmations, as one led to another, confirming it, and returning again to the first.
“You see, Watson,” he said, glancing my way, “there really is a place in the world for coincidence.”
“Or Providence, as you so recently pointed out,” I said, my earlier sleepiness entirely dispelled.
“Exactly,” said Holmes. “And now, Mrs. – ?”
“Grimshaw,” said the woman. “The widow of Mr. J.A. Grimshaw.”
“Mrs. Grimshaw. How may the doctor and I help you? As I said, it is obvious that you did not consult with your sister before departing for London, or you would have realized that we were not at home, and had not indicated when we would return.”
“That is correct, Mr. Holmes. Martha has always been the most sensible sister of us all, in every sense of the word, and she might have tried to talk me out of relating my story to you. After all, she would say that it was a just a ghost story, but I know what I’ve seen. Therefore, I decided to journey up to London, as if I were simply a client, and then listen to my sister’s sharp criticism on the matter after the fact.”
Holmes glanced out the window as the train slowed for the next station. “Perhaps, if you do not wish for your sister to know about the reason for your trip, it might be better for us to leave the train here, at the next stop, and discuss the matter, instead of traveling on up to town. That would also have the benefit of putting us closer to your home, should we decide to return there, rather than going all the way up to London, simply to come back again.”
“That would suit me admirably, Mr. Holmes. There is a small tea shop near this station where we may talk, and you can tell me whether my fears have any merit, or are simply caused from living alone for too long. Although I will tell you,” she added, “I am not a woman given to fancy!”
As the train huffed to a stop, we gathered our things and departed, moving awkwardly around the sleeping behemoth sprawled by the door. He sputtered and blew out his moustache several times, but never awakened. I hoped that he roused himself in time to disembark at his destination.
“Do not worry about our friend, the salesman,” said Holmes softly, reading my thoughts. “He is obviously from London, and is returning after a successful week or two roaming the Midlands and the West Country. He will awaken at the end of the line and make his way home to his wife and three young children, the youngest being the only boy, who will all be glad to see both him and the small trinkets that he is bringing to them.”
Before I could ask how Holmes had determined these facts about the man, he had left me, hurrying to catch up with Mrs. Grimshaw as she turned in her ticket and walked out of the station, never looking back, and rightly assuming that we would be following smartly behind her.
After a short left turn, and then a right into a quiet lane, we found ourselves seated in one of those little tea shops that occur with great regularity throughout the country, crowded with dainty furniture and tea-related appurtenances. It was not too heavily occupied at that time of the morning, and we made our way to a quiet table along a side wall, not quite in the back, but close enough to the front to have the benefit of the morning light without being too visible from the street outside.
We ordered a strong pot of tea and a selection of cakes, although something more substantial, such as coffee and sandwiches, would have been more to my liking, following the night that Holmes and I had just faced. After the comestibles were placed on the table by the shop’s apparent owner, a scrubbed-looking and doughy woman in her sixties, Mrs. Grimshaw began her tale.
“As I said, my sister Martha has always been the sensible one of us girls, and I do not doubt that she would have tried to discourage me from asking your advice. However, while I don’t like to think of myself as any less sensible, I know what I’ve seen, and I finally decided that I must speak to you.
“I’m fortunate to know so much about you already from Martha’s letters, and also from what I hear from time to time from one of our other sisters, Mrs. Turner, who lives nearby, and who I understand occasionally helps Martha when needed.”
I nodded. “We think a great deal of both of your sisters.”
“The others are just as sensible as well,” said Mrs. Grimshaw, taking my comment to refer to their Scottish pragmatism.
“As we grew, we all went our different ways. I married Mr. Grimshaw, who was a soldier at the time, but he was soon invalided out, which suited us both just fine. He had good reference from one of the officers for whom he had done a turn once, and we found positions at a house and grounds north of Sudbury, him as the handyman and groundskeeper, and me as housekeeper.
“I need to describe things so you’ll understand me when I tell what I’ve seen. When we went to work there, over twenty years ago, the house was already mostly empty and closed off, and owned by a retired broker named Mr. Felton.”
Holmes’s eyebrows slightly lifted. “Clifton Felton?” he asked.
Mrs. Grimshaw smiled. “I see that you remember him. I’m not surprised.”
“Well, I’m not ashamed to admit that I have not made his acquaintance,” I interrupted.
“All in good time, Watson,” said Holmes. “Let Mrs. Grimshaw continue with her narrative, and I’m sure Mr. Felton’s relevance will become obvious as we go along.”
With a smile, Mrs. Grimshaw continued. “At the time that my husband and I went to work for the man, he was a widower, living a very quiet life amongst his papers and books. He had a young son, still a boy, Theodore, or Ted as he was called. After about ten years or so, Ted grew up and moved away, only visiting on occasion. I believe that he held a job somewhere around Oxford. The two seemed to get along well enough with one another, on the occasions when Ted came to visit.
“My husband and I never had very difficult duties. Mr. Felton did not entertain, and great portions of the house were permanently shut up. The grounds, which consisted of several acres enclosed by a wall, did not require a great deal of work, as Mr. Felton did not have formal gardens. Rather, he simply wished for the natural intrusion of the trees and other plants to be kept at bay, instead of completely tamed. Therefore, my husband usually had his work well in hand each day, and did not require any assistance from other employees, unless he had to bring in an occasional day helper, if a tree fell, for instance, or something else along those lines, that was too much for him.
“In the main house, we had a cook and a maid that came in by day, but left in the evenings. My husband and I did not live in the big house – in fact, no one lived there but Mr. Felton. He allowed us to live in a small cottage on the western side of the grounds and its surrounding quarter-acre at that corner of the property, which has come to be known locally as the Kerrett’s Rood. The overall property has always been known as Kerrett House, in reference to the rich shipping agent who first built it early in the century. Although there have been several owners since that time, the original name has stuck.
“We existed in the same routine for many years. Cooks and maids would come and go, but naturally, without any great drama. Day in and day out, I would make my way up to the house in the morning and my husband would carry out his tasks outdoors, and we would return to our little cottage at night, leaving Mr. Felton in the house.
“All until September of 1878,” said Holmes, with a knowing look.
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Grimshaw. “Suddenly, Mr. Felton’s quiet life was exposed as a lie, and as it all tumbled down, it shook what my husband and I had with it for a while, despite our complete ignorance of what had happened.”
I struggled to remember what had occurred during that time, before quickly realizing that I had not been in England then at all, and could not be expected to know. Earlier that year, I had taken my degree as a Doctor of Medicine at the University of London, and had left London to begin a series of events that eventually took me to the other side of the world and back, before depositing me again in that great metropolitan cesspool, where I would have probably foundered and died if not washing up on the friendly steps leading up to 221b Baker Street.
Holmes noticed my chain of thought, and interrupted. “You would not have known anything about what happened, my friend, although you might have heard me mention it once or twice in passing. Perhaps you recall a reference here or there to the Reckless Goings-on at the Suicide Club?”
I did remember hearing of it, but no details of this case had ever been provided to me. Mrs. Grimshaw nodded in agreement. “That was it. That’s what the papers called them. That all took place about the same time that Martha’s husband was killed in a railway accident, and she decided to take in boarders. Is that when you first moved there?”
Holmes shook his head, and I added, “Holmes and I met on the first day of January, 1881, when he had learned of the available rooms, and was introduced to me afterwards upon realizing that he needed a fellow lodger to share expenses.”
Holmes smiled. “By that point in time, your sister had already been renting the rooms for a year or so, and believed that she understood what was involved with being a landlady.” His eyes took on a mischievous glint, and he added, “That was before I moved my little practice there.”
We laughed, Mrs. Grimshaw included, and the owner of the shop used the opportunity to approach our table. Mrs. Grimshaw indicated that another pot of tea would be welcome, while I expressed a desire to switch to a cup of strong black coffee instead. The owner quickly returned, and after our cups were filled, Holmes indicated that Mrs. Grimshaw should continue her story. She glanced at me, and then back at Holmes, who said, “Tell us why you have decided to seek me out in London, braving possible discouragement from your sister, whom to my knowledge you have not visited since Watson and I became tenants.”
“Because I have seen Mr. Ted Felton, the son, in the window of the big house at night, staring down the hill toward my cottage.”
I could see that the statement meant something to Holmes. “And why should that be unusual?” I asked, feeling that I was still very much in the dark.
Holmes answered. “After the events of 1878 were concluded, and Clifton Felton, the father, died, Ted Felton did away with himself.”
Mrs. Grimshaw nodded. “I see that you still remember it, Mr. Holmes. After Mr. Clifton’s death, and what followed, it was said that Mr. Ted couldn’t bear the shame, and that he drowned himself in the Thames.”
“Where his body was never found,” added Holmes. “And his ‘ghost’ has contented itself with a peaceful rest for over four years until recently, when suddenly it has returned to haunt his father’s former home. I can see why you believed that your sister might discourage you from bringing this story to my attention.”
His statement seemed to rub Mrs. Grimshaw the wrong way for a moment, as I could see her eyes tighten, resembling more the grim woman who had first entered our train compartment that morning. But then she seemed to sense what I already knew: Holmes was not dismissing her story outright, and was in fact interested in what circumstances could have led her to believe that a young man had returned from the dead.
“How,” said Holmes, “has this manifestation of Ted Felton made itself known?”
“By showing himself in the great window of the big house, that is centered in the very front of the building. It was two weeks or so ago that I first looked up and saw him. I was out in the small garden behind my cottage, seeing what needed to be done for the spring planting, when I glanced up and there he was, framed in the window. As you might recall from before, Mr. Holmes, the land slopes up to the east from the back of my cottage, toward the big house. That main west-facing window looks down toward me. It is several hundred feet away, but I could see him as plain as day, as the evening sun was shining full on the front of the big house. He was always a lanky lad, and he had a unique way of standing, leaning back on one leg as if he were propped on a shooting stick. That first night, I admit, I was so shocked that I just stood and looked. He was there for another minute or so, and then he seemed to vanish.”
“How many other times has he appeared?
“Oh, five or six, I suppose. The next night, after I first saw him, I stood around outside at sunset, waiting to see if he appeared again, but he did not. I haven’t been out every night since then, but I’ve tried to see if he reappeared. A few nights he has.”
“And did you only watch from the back of your cottage, or did you investigate further?”
“I must admit that I did not want to know anything about why he was there. At least not at first. But last night, when I saw him again, I finally got up my nerve and took the old key and made my way up there.”
“And the house has stood empty since the tragedy to which you have referred took place in 1878?” I interrupted. “Who is the current owner of the property? Are you the caretaker?”
“After Mr. Clifton Felton died, and then Mr. Ted followed soon after, I was visited by the old family solicitor, Benjamin Weekes. His office is located in the village, in the High Street. He had known the Felton family for many years, and I believe there was some gossip that, when they were all young, Mr. Weekes had set his cap for the woman who later became Mr. Clifton’s wife. Of course, this was long before I knew any of them.”
“I heard something of it at the time, during that day or so when I was in the village,” said Holmes.
“Mr. Weekes explained that, while Mr. Clifton’s affairs were tangled because of the events that led to his death, Mr. Ted had inherited his own separate income from his mother, and that the father’s will had indicated that after his death, my husband and I were to inherit Kerrett’s Rood, which would be sectioned off as its own property, and that the residue of the money would go to pay the taxes on the remaining estate for as long as it would last. Mr. Weekes told me that the amount of money left by Mr. Ted would last a long time.
“My husband, while he was still alive, worked out an arrangement with Mr. Weekes to continue to keep up the estate. He would maintain the grounds in a limited way, and check the house on a regular basis. After my husband passed last year, I’ve hired some day jobbers to work in the grounds as needed, but the house has stood empty this entire time, although I do walk through it once a quarter or so to see that everything remains the same. It is a solid old place, and may sit there for many years as it is, dark and quiet and still inside. I take in work as a seamstress now, and Mr. Weekes still sends me something each month for keeping an eye on the place, but I don’t have the time or the authorization to keep the house clean inside. So there it stands, and will continue to do so, I suppose. Which is why I was so surprised to see Mr. Ted’s spirit come back.”
“And you’ve only seen it manifest itself at sunset?” said Holmes. “It is a curious spirit indeed that eschews the haunted midnight hour to reveal itself during daylight. You say that he only first appeared a couple of weeks ago. Around the twenty-first day of March?”
Mrs. Grimshaw nodded, and Holmes continued, “Around the first of spring, then. Had you been outside much before that in the evenings, or was that an activity that you had only recently resumed, upon the return of warm weather, and the need to begin preparations for this year’s garden?”
“Just about then, I should say,” replied Mrs. Grimshaw. “Everything was all tucked away tidily enough last fall for the winter, and there was no need to go out back until recently.”
“Just so,” said Holmes. “And the big windows where you saw this spirit face toward the west, so they are directly looking at the setting sun, whose path across the earth is progressing northwards this time of year. Our ancients understood where to look for the rising and setting of the sun against the horizon on different dates, and it still has an effect on our activities as well.”
“Do you mean,” I said, “that the springtime sunset was in such a location as to fully highlight the large windows where the figure was seen, whereas in the winter it might have lit the house from a different direction?”
“Exactly,” said Holmes. “The spirit, or whatever it is, might have been standing there in that location for weeks or even months before Mrs. Grimshaw first spotted it – or him – but it was only the combination of her desire to examine the area behind her house, along with the exact angle of the sun on those windows upon those dates, that made him visible. In fact, I would wager that the figure, man or spirit, who was standing in those windows looking down the hill, did not see you at all, Mrs. Grimshaw.”
“But how could that be?” she asked. “It is only a few hundred yards away, and I was right there in front of him. The lawn slopes between the two buildings, and there are no trees or bushes between to block his view.”
“Yes, but he was facing into the setting sun,” said Holmes, “and you were in the shadow cast by your cottage, as the sun was setting behind it. That is why he probably felt free to return to the window on subsequent nights. He did not believe that he had been observed.”
“You sound as if you already have a theory, Holmes,” I said.
“And so I do,” he replied. “Let us make our way back to the station, and we will journey with Mrs. Grimshaw to Kerrett’s Rood. I’m afraid that your visit to your sister will have to be postponed,” said Holmes. He then lifted his teacup, which had been mostly ignored during the conversation, and swallowed the entire contents in two gulps.
I could see that that owner of the shop had been watching us with some impatience as we continued to occupy space, although there did not seem to be any great influx of patrons as the morning progressed. Happy to accommodate, we paid our bill and stepped out into the quiet street.
We made our way to the station, and only had to wait a few minutes for a down train to arrive. While Mrs. Grimshaw and I stood about, Holmes sent several wires, without revealing their destination or contents. There were far fewer passengers waiting to travel away from London, and we quickly found a private compartment. I noticed with a suppressed grin that Holmes, always the gentleman when circumstances allowed, made an effort to lead us to one that did not accommodate smoking.
After we had seated ourselves, Holmes said, “While we make our way, perhaps we can elaborate for Doctor Watson the tragic events of 1878, so he will have some context of what I expect to discover when we arrive.”
Mrs. Grimshaw nodded and began. “As you mentioned earlier, it was late September, 1878, just another month in just another year. Mr. Felton’s son, Ted, was away at the time, as he usually was, probably in Oxford, but I couldn’t say for sure.
“I need to further explain how the estate around Kerrett House is laid out, for the doctor’s benefit. It is a walled enclosure of about five acres. As I have said, the grounds were managed by my husband, but not strictly controlled and landscaped, if you understand my meaning. The house itself sits in the middle of the property, on a slight rise that drops off in all directions. There are a few small outbuildings at the back toward the eastern wall, but they are still quite a distance from the walls.
“The only building that is adjacent to the wall is the cottage in which I live, on the West Road. In fact, the front of the cottage is part of the wall, so that my front door opens directly into the street, and the first floor windows look down into it. There is only one door in that whole wall, front or back, other than the front door to my house, and it is the great gate that also opens onto the West Road. This is located some little distance from my house, in the same side.
“This gate is probably twenty feet wide, in two ten-foot sections that swing wide when something big goes in or out. Set into one of these sections is a smaller door for regular in-and-out foot traffic. That is what we used when we needed to enter or leave on any normal day.”
“We?” interrupted Holmes. “Who would have used that gate, or visited the Felton house?”
“Why, the cook and maid would come in by the regular door in the gate, as would my husband or myself if we had business in that direction. That was where Mr. Felton’s son would enter as well, when he was home. Tradesmen would use it when they brought supplies to the big house, although sometimes they would deliver in a wagon. If that was the case, arrangements would be made for my husband to unlock and open the big gate.”
“So the large gate was normally kept locked, but the regular door there was not?”
“During the day only. And at night, the smaller door was locked as well, by my husband. Of course,” she added, “my husband and I used the front door in our own house, which opened through the wall into the street, to go in and out as we felt like.”
“Did Mr. Felton leave specific standing instructions that the gate be locked?”
“He did,” replied Mrs. Grimshaw. “He greatly valued his privacy, and did not really see anyone during the day but me or my husband. The cook and the maid stayed out of his way, and he kept to himself. At night, when the small staff would leave, he wanted the gate locked. He told me that, living as he did in that big house, he did not like the idea of people getting in at night and roaming the grounds, and him up there alone. It did not seem to be unusual to either me or my husband, and locking the gate was simply one of the few duties in my husband’s day.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “I quite understand.”
Mrs. Grimshaw smiled and continued. “September 1878 was like any other month, until that early morning when the police knocked us up, showing us papers and demanding to be let into the grounds. For it turned out that Mr. Felton, the man that we had believed was asleep in the big house, was dead in the cellar of a London warehouse. And as if that were not enough, it turned out that he was the leader of a criminal gang that had been in existence for years.”
Holmes nodded, and Mrs. Grimshaw said, “I believe at this point, Mr. Holmes, you might be able to tell us more than I can of what was behind Mr. Felton’s mysterious past. Even after nearly five years, come this September, I’m not sure that I understand it all.”
As Holmes gathered his thoughts for a moment, and then said, “At the time these events were going on, I was living in Montague Street, beside the British Museum, dividing my efforts unevenly between investigations and my unique studies. When I became involved in this investigation, I had no idea that it would lead to exposure of the Suicide Club as well, of which we have recently spoken.”
“But not explained,” I said. “I am anxious to hear about this grim-sounding group. Did it have anything to do with Stevenson’s story, first published about that same time, if I recall correctly?”[1]
“I believe that around the time these events first came to light, some clever member of the press remembered the title of Stevenson’s book and appropriated it. Otherwise, there were no connections.
“Without taking too much of our time with this tale, I was approached in early September of that year by the banker, Sir Wilton Cole, whose house in Surrey had been burglarized a week or so before.
“Most of the silver plate, as well as some minor artworks, had been taken. It was not a substantial loss to Sir Wilton, but he was nevertheless quite angry, and did not enjoy being taken advantage of without making some effort to fight back.
“He informed me that it was the opinion of the authorities that the crime seemed to be the latest to have been perpetrated by a group known as the Bracknell Gang. They had come to be given that colorful title throughout Surrey, and areas to the north and west, not because of any known fact about them that would affix the name to them, but rather because Bracknell was the first location that one of their robberies had seemingly taken place.
“The crimes were all very similar in method, location, and what was stolen. They had been occurring for several years at that point on a sporadic but predictable basis. The loot would eventually turn up in London, having been sold and resold, untraceable, and long after the actual robberies. I must admit that, in my more-than-adequate time to study London crime during those periods between clients in my Montague Street rooms, I had found several occasions to look into the activities of the supposed Bracknell Gang and ponder their methodologies. Since this is another story for another time, and without elaborating too much, which I am sure is a disappointment to the doctor,” he said, smiling in my direction, “I will simply say that I had been able to form a theory or two, and I was glad of this opportunity to test them first hand.”
“I traveled to Sir Wilton’s Surrey home, with a letter in my pocket informing his staff to provide all cooperation that I would need. In short, I saw evidence, underneath the trampling of the police, that three men had been involved in the crime. I tracked them across the grounds to where a wagon had been secured in a nearby copse at the rear of the estate, alongside a small and little-used farm road. The wagon had a crooked left rear wheel, and the footmarks of the horse had their own unique characteristics, especially in the poor way in which the right rear shoe had been attached. The wagon had been there for an hour or so, unattended but with the horse tied, based on the evidence on the ground. Also, the wagon was heavier leaving than it had been when it had arrived. If Sir Wilton had waited one more day to seek me out, the clues would have faded away.
“I managed to follow the trail to a nearby village, where I located both the wagon and the horse at a stable. They had been rented on the day of the robbery. I obtained a very accurate description of the three men, since it was quite unusual that the wagon had been returned so late at night. With this description in hand, I also discovered that these same three men had been at the local railway station an hour or so before returning the wagon, where they had arranged to ship a number of sealed wooden crates on the last train of the night, the very same train that they themselves used. It was relatively easy from that point, based on the descriptions and carelessness of the burglars, to track them back to an area north of Sudbury. The crates were to be delivered to that station, where they would be held until retrieved.
“They had become rather arrogant after several years of successful robberies, and had not bothered to take the time to adequately cover their trail. An hour or two of asking questions identified the three men, two of whom were locals who had taken delivery of the crates, Amos Sykes and Steven Wells. The third, as you will have determined, my dear Watson, was our reclusive Mr. Clifton Felton.
“I made my way to the local constabulary, well aware that my youth and small reputation at the time would require some little extra effort on my part in order to convince them that the three men were in fact the Bracknell Gang. In particular, from what I had learned, this Mr. Felton, a retired broker who seemed to live a quiet and reclusive life within his walled estate, would seem a most unlikely villain.
“I made my initial explanations, and was soon passed along to an Inspector Ross, since deceased, who tolerantly allowed me to explain my reasoning. He listened with increasing interest as I made my case.
“Finally, he said, ‘I am convinced, Mr. Holmes. At least enough to follow up on what you have brought to me. But there is one thing, one small factor that you should know. Perhaps, being away from London for a day or so as you trailed these three men, you have been prevented from hearing the latest news.’
“He handed me a wire from London sent that very day, revealing the death of Mr. Clifton Felton, just the night before. He had killed himself in the basement of a London warehouse. Although we did not know it yet, not having any idea of the true nature of the crime, Felton’s would turn out to be the last of the deaths connected to the reckless ‘Suicide Club’.”
Mrs. Grimshaw nodded, while I sat up straighter, interested in learning more of this sinister and intriguing organization.
Holmes, however, veered away from it, instead stating, “Inspector Ross explained that he was expecting a representative from Scotland Yard on the next train, whereupon they would go to the house to break the news to the staff. My information relating to the robbery added a new layer to the problem. By the time the London man had arrived, Ross had a warrant to examine the property, looking for stolen goods. He had also sent out men to take Amos Sykes and Steven Wells into custody for further questioning.
“And so I set out for Kerrett House with Inspector Ross, along with Inspector Plummer from London, whom I previously knew.” He turned to Mrs. Grimshaw, “I do not know if you recall that I was accompanying the police when we searched Mr. Felton’s house.”
“You’ll forgive me, I’m sure, that I did not notice you. I was understandably not very observant that morning,” she said. Turning to me, she explained, “The day had started like any other. My husband and I were up very early, eating our own breakfast before he was to leave, in order to unlock the small gate for the cook and maid, and I to go on up to the big house. The cook and maid were never required to arrive particularly early, as Mr. Felton always slept until mid-morning. Only later did we realize that he was probably sleeping so late because he was often out far into the night, and he was not home in bed as we had always believed.
“We did not know that the police had arrived and had been pounding on the main gate for quite some time before one of them got the idea to knock on our door.”
“Actually, I was the one who knocked on your door,” said Holmes. “However, Inspector Ross had followed me down the wall to your house, and by the time you opened it, it was he who took charge, with great authority.”
“As I said, I’m afraid that I don’t recall you,” said Mrs. Grimshaw. “In any event, we were told that there was evidence indicating Mr. Felton was the leader of a long-standing burglary ring, and there was a warrant to search the house and grounds. In addition, the inspector mentioned, almost as an afterthought, that Mr. Felton was dead by his own hand.”
“You can imagine, gentlemen, that this news fairly astounded me and my poor husband. Mr. Felton, who never left home – or so we thought then – was accused of being a criminal, and he had been found dead as well, on the far side of London. And there was every indication that the police believed that we were somehow involved in his crimes along with him.”
“The police mind,” said Holmes, “first looks at everyone with suspicion, assuming that all involved are initially guilty, and then sorts out the wheat from the chaff later, so to speak, hopefully successfully. When I first presented my theories to Inspector Ross, I could tell that he was even weighing my own possible involvement and guilt in the matter, as if my accusations were part of some too-clever plan to implicate one of my fellow gang-members and thus take over the operation for myself. As you know, it was soon established that neither you nor your husband had any knowledge of Mr. Felton’s night-time activities.”
Mrs. Grimshaw nodded. “And for that I’m grateful, Mr. Holmes. After the police were let in, the house was searched, and a great deal of the stolen materials were found hidden in a locked room in the basement of the big house. But one great mystery was that there was never any explanation as to how they had actually come to be there. My husband always locked the only gate every night, and surely we would have noticed something suspicious during the years that the gang was going about its business. We never saw any signs of anyone leaving or entering at night, let along carrying in heaps of stolen property. We truly believed that Mr. Felton stayed inside and had no visitors.”
“And you may not have been aware that no key for the gate was ever found in the big house, or on Mr. Felton’s person. The only key that we could locate was your husband’s, which had remained with him the entire time. How the loot came to be in the basement of the house, as well as the other indications that the two other gang members were frequent visitors down there, remains a mystery to this day. Inspector Ross theorized that somehow they came and went over the back wall, but I remain unconvinced, as the estate is surrounded by fairly well-traveled roads on all sides, and moving that amount of material back and forth over the walls, even in the dead of night, in order to carry it across the grounds and hide it in the house, seems unlikely and would have left some trace. And there was no indication anywhere that the walls had been climbed or breached, and no paths in the grounds leading from the walls to the house. Sykes and Wells were certainly never forthcoming with any useful information. They went to Dartmoor with the secret sealed within them.”
“But surely,” I said, “you must have theorized some other explanation.”
“Ah, Watson, you must remember that I was younger then, only twenty-four years old. I was still learning my craft, and not as confident as I am now. Besides, Inspector Ross was not interested in finding out specifics. He had captured the Bracknell Gang, he had recovered some, if not all, of the booty, and he did not yet know the deeper connection to the sensational events of the Suicide Club, as it came to be called afterwards in the London papers. He was more than full with the meal that I had brought to him. He did not need to seek anything else.”
“And this ‘Suicide Club’?” I asked. “What was it? How did it fit in to this odd business?”
“Again, that should be another story for another time. Nevertheless – ”
“But Holmes!” I interrupted, refusing to be denied the details of this intriguing story. “Surely it is relevant to Mrs. Grimshaw’s problem.”
“As I started to say,” Holmes continued, “I will give a short précis of the events, so that Mr. Felton’s death, and the subsequent suicide of his son Ted, may be better understood.”
He glanced out the window and said, “I see by the slow progression of the quarter-mile posts that I should have time to tell you what happened next.
“Following the exposure of the robbery gang, and the arrest of the surviving members, I returned to Montague Street. I was not completely satisfied with the case, as there were several questions left unexplained. How had the loot made its way to the big house without any signs being left of its passage? What had prompted Clifton Felton to take his own life, on the very night before his long-standing criminal activities were about to be exposed? Was there a connection, or was it merely coincidence, which does happen more than I would like. I intended to see what could be discovered in London, at the other end of the matter, on my own time and for my own edification. Before I could begin, however, I was visited by Mr. Ted Felton, who had come up to London to hire me to answer the very same questions that I had been asking myself.
“Even then, I was learning to recognize the various approaches that a client might make as they made their way to my lodgings. Whether they forcefully approached the door and pulled the bell with great vehemence, or possibly stepped close to the doorway in a timid fashion several times, before veering off and then returning, finally overcoming great reluctance to meekly climb the stairs to state their business, each client was a great study for an up-and-coming consulting detective. I had observed Ted Felton from my first-floor window. He came straight on, with the look of a man walking with grim purpose to the gallows.
“When he was shown in, he took a few moments to get to the reason for his visit, a reason that I had already divined: He wished to know what lay behind his father’s participation in the robbery ring, and more importantly, why had had killed himself.
“I could see that something else was on his mind, until he finally could not hold it in any longer. ‘Mr. Holmes, do you think that word of your trailing my father from the robbery site in Surrey could have reached him, and he therefore chose to end his life before he was to be arrested?’
“I had been asking myself the same question, but I had already decided that I had been quite careful not to reveal any information during my travels, nor had I given my questions too much importance as I tracked the robbers. Clifton Felton could not have known that I was on his trail, and his suicide must have come about from some other cause. So I said to Ted Felton, and I think that he believed me. I agreed to examine the matter further.
“After he departed, I made my way from Montague Street down to Scotland Yard, where I found Inspector Plummer, now long since retired. I questioned him about several aspects of the matter, including the whereabouts of Sykes and Wells on the night of the suicide. He had established without a doubt that both men were in the local pub near their homes, and had not been in London when Felton’s suicide occurred.
“Inspector Plummer also revealed other specific circumstances related to the events of Clifton Felton’s death. He told me that the body had been found in the basement of a warehouse, one of those brooding and dangerous buildings between Cannon Street and the Thames. The building had been standing empty for nearly a year, as the heirs to the previous owner squabbled amongst themselves, choosing to make no income in the meantime in order to spite one another. There had been no reason to believe that Felton would have been found anytime soon, perhaps not for weeks, except that a message had been left at the nearby police station, stating that a man, named specifically in the note as Clifton Felton, had hanged himself at that particular warehouse. A couple of constables had been dispatched to the scene, whereupon they confirmed the contents of the short note.
“Inspector Plummer had the note with him, in his file relating to the case, and he gladly let me examine it. I could see right away that it was not written by some civic-minded vagrant who had trespassed into the warehouse and discovered the body. It was on good quality paper, with better ink than one might expect from that area, and there were no instances in the note of either misspellings or punctuation errors. I asked Plummer if the quality of the note did not seem unusual to him, but he commented that he had not found it to be so. He expected that it was probably left by one of the children of the former owner, who had been inspecting the property and found the body. Rather than become involved in the matter, an anonymous note had been written. When asked how the writer had known that the dead man was Clifton Felton, and could thus name him in the note, Plummer dismissed my query by saying that the discoverer of the body no doubt knew Felton when he was a broker, before his retirement.
“I was filled with objections, as this theory assumed too much without proving anything, but to Plummer the case was closed. Thanking him, I departed and wondered what to do next. More to fill up my time than having any expectation of discovering a new fact, I made my way to the warehouse, in order to inspect the scene of the death. Something was preventing me, even at that point, of thinking of it as a suicide.
“Although the building was sealed, I had no difficulty in gaining entrance. I quickly saw that there was very little to be learned, as the building truly had been closed and empty for quite some time. There were no signs of any vagrants having obtained access, and the movements of the various policemen at the time of the body’s discovery were quite obvious. The remains of the rope were still tied around a rafter, but it had been cut, certainly when the body was removed. I realized that I would have to return to Scotland Yard to ask if the knotted section from around the dead man’s neck had been retained. It was something that I should have thought to ask about when I was there, showing that at that point in my career, I still had much to learn. If I had examined the knot on my first trip, the second would not have been necessary. I retraced my steps westward. I left Scotland Yard later that afternoon, having determined that the rope was knotted in a perfectly ordinary fashion, and not showing any signs of exotic origin, such as might have been tied by a one-armed Siamese sailor.”
I could see that Holmes made the last statement with a twinkle in his eye, and Mrs. Grimshaw, who did not know him as well, appeared to believe that he was speaking in jest and that such an obscure clue could not exist. The irony was that, in spite of Holmes’s subtle ridicule of such a thing, just such a knot had been relevant not three weeks before, although the matter had related to a complicated and grotesque fraud case, rather than a murder.
“Not knowing where to turn next,” Holmes continued, “I decided to start over and look for a pattern, a system that has been of use to me in the past. Returning to Montague Street, I began to examine my scrapbooks, which even then were proving to be quite useful. It was there that I found the loose thread. I had been reminded of something while I was examining the warehouse, and I was sure that there was information about it back in my rooms.
“And I was correct. Over the past eight months, there had been six seemingly unconnected suicides, all men of Clifton Felton’s approximate age and station in life. Each was an older man, retired from a professional career. Each was a widower who, if he did have children, did not live with him. In fact, each of the men lived alone, with a minimal housekeeping staff. Each was believed to be the sort of man who stayed in at night, and each had been found in remote London locations, dead by their own hands, although by a variety of methods, including a couple of hangings, one who left the gas on in a rented room, two self-inflicted gunshot wounds, and one fellow who was suffocated by shutting himself up in a servant’s bedroom in an empty house while burning a brazier full of charcoal. In each case, an anonymous note had been left for the authorities, telling where the men might be found, and specifically naming them to speed their identification.
“Those were the stories of the six men that I found, based on clippings that I had kept for my scrapbooks. It was my habit to docket news stories related to odd or unusual deaths, but I was not yet experienced enough to have noticed the pattern when I first clipped the stories, spread out as they were over a number of months. And even after identifying those six, I did not realize then how many others there were. However, surely six was enough to indicate further investigation was required.
“Even in those days, I was making connections within the police force, and no one was more obligated to me than our old friend, Inspector Lestrade. He was able to allow me access to the files regarding these various and seemingly unrelated suicides. As they had been spread out over a period of months, had occurred in different parts of London and the surrounding Home Counties, and had involved victims who lived in all the compass points around the capital, no one had associated any connection between them. I started with a list of six names, and by the time I had combed through the Yard’s files, I had identified thirteen other probable and similar victims, going back for a period of several years.
“I shared my findings with Lestrade, who agreed that there was indeed a pattern. He also held my belief that this needed to be investigated quietly, so as not to spook whoever was involved in what was seemingly a large number of similarly suspicious suicides.
“I spent the better part of a week traveling here and there, cautiously interviewing servants, family members, train station employees, and cabbies, who might have remembered taking any of the men in question to any common locations. Eventually, one recurring factor became clear. At some time before their deaths, the men in question had been spending an evening or two a week at a pub in Hampstead, unknown to their servants.
“I had determined this by querying various railway employees in the stations near each man’s home, determining through further questioning along the line that their destinations had been Hampstead. Once there, I was able to find one or two people who remembered the destination of this or that man. I assure you that what I have boiled down to a sentence or two was rigorous and painstaking work, and for every successful thread that I isolated and followed to its conclusion, I had to drop a hundred others. It was an excellent educational experience for a young consulting detective, I can assure you.
“By the end of my investigations, I had identified a common locality as ‘The Dog and Wolf’ in Hampstead. It will do you no good to look for it the next time you are up that way. It is out of business and gone, and both of the owners, a pair of brothers named Will and Edward Duval, are no longer there either, or with us among the quick at all, for that matter.
“Edward actually ran the pub. Will, who went by the more formal ‘William’ when he was in the City every day, worked for several life insurance companies over the course of his last few years. It was there that he managed to keep track of the various insurance policies that he and his brother had taken out in the names of the numerous dead men, naming fictitious individuals of their own invention as beneficiaries.
“It was never clear exactly how their scheme started, and obviously they were not very forthcoming in revealing how many men had fallen into their trap, beyond the number that we confirmed. Their scheme was simple. They had gained a reputation for running an establishment that seemed to attract older, retiring men of like backgrounds and disposition. By providing several less-than-salubrious activities to their hand-picked customers, they managed to keep these men returning on a semi regular basis. And every once in a while, when they had found out enough about this or that man to know personal information and forge signatures, they would apply for a life insurance policy, with a fictitious person as the beneficiary. Usually, Will would open an account at an out-of-the way bank in this fictitious person’s name, so there would be a place for the insurance payments to be deposited. Then, once the funds were there, the account would be quietly closed and the money funneled back to the two brothers.
“Ordinarily, this scheme could not succeed. However, Will Duval had worked for a number of years as a trusted employee of some of the larger insurance firms in the City, and he was able to slip the policies through the cracks in the system at each of his employers. Then, after each of the victims died, he would process the claim himself, while making sure that any mention of suicide did not show on the official books, as that would invalidate the policy. However, when the Duvals killed their victims, they had to make it appear as a suicide so that there would be no ongoing murder investigations. And it was the two of them who left the anonymous notes, so that the bodies could be discovered quickly, speeding along the death payment from the insurance companies.
“None of the policies were ever very large, and therefore did not attract attention from anyone higher up at any of the firms. During the course of their activities, Will changed employers three times, always welcome at his new location, and always careful to leave the previous employer before anything unusual was noticed.
“It seems likely that they were working this system for a while before eventually attempting to take a big prize, one that would perhaps allow them to leave the country. However, their last victim, Clifton Felton, was, to their misfortune, also identified at the same time as the leader of a burglary ring. It was, as it turned out, a coincidence that Felton had been murdered while he was being scrutinized and pursued for his crimes.
“The arrest of the two brothers was surprisingly a quiet affair. The police, led by Lestrade, closed upon the pub, catching both brothers unaware. Their records were easily found, as they had become quite careless due to the ongoing success of their schemes. A few other names of victims were revealed as well, bringing the total number of murdered men to nearly two dozen. It was believed at the time that there may have been even more, before they began to document their records in such a helpfully systematic way.
“Lestrade received a commendation of some sort that turned out to be of value to him, and I subsequently received his gratitude. The insurance companies were both embarrassed at the way the two brothers had used the weaknesses within their system in order to hide their activities, and they were also grateful that these same weaknesses had at last been exposed. They have since tightened up many aspects of the way they do business. And the press, once it learned of the activities promoted at ‘The Dog and Wolf’ that had been used to attract the lonely old men and start them on the path to their early deaths, was happy to have a story with all the seamy aspects ready made that sell newspapers. The fact that Stevenson’s story, ‘The Suicide Club,’ had appeared just months earlier, only helped to give them a peg to hang their hat upon.
“However, neither of us, Lestrade nor myself, could ever figure the complete story behind Clifton Felton’s relationship to the events. No doubt he had heard about the place from someone or other, by word of mouth. He may have been leaving his home at night for years. His visits to the pub were verified as having started a month or so preceding his death. His movements were traced from the station near his home to Hampstead, and then back again in the early hours. But after all was said and done relating to the matter of his murder, we never learned how he departed from his property to either go out at night or to commit the robberies, any more than we could determine how the burglary ring was able to enter or depart the premises, leaving a mound of stolen loot in the basement.
“But there was one final chapter left in the story, or so I thought until today. The part about Ted Felton, and his death following the revelations regarding his father.”
There would be no time to hear this part of the story now. The train was pulling into the station. We stepped down to the platform, but instead of moving toward the exit, Holmes walked over to a man standing off to one side, wearing a stiff-looking glove on his left hand and a noticeable red scarf around his throat. The fellow handed Holmes a packet of documents which turned out to be a collection of telegrams. Holmes and the man in the scarf shook hands, and the fellow turned and left without another word.
“That was Sacker,” said Holmes. “He sometimes acts as my unofficial agent up in these parts. Lost most of the fingers on his left hand, back in ’79, during a gelignite accident while trying to blow one of the Cox & Company safes. If I hadn’t arrived there in time, his compatriots might have blown up the rest of him, as well.” He started reading through the telegrams.
“And the scarf?” I asked.
Holmes shook his head, almost testily. “Do I have to explain everything, Watson?” Then, realizing his tone, he lifted his head and smiled. “It was so I could spot him easily in the station and save a few moments.”
As if Sacker wouldn’t be able to spot Holmes first, I thought, looking at him, reading the telegrams in his Inverness and fore-and-aft.
Finally, Holmes completed his perusal of the messages and said, “Let us be off.” He led us outside, whereupon Mrs. Grimshaw gestured to the left. “The West Road is this way, Mr. Holmes.”
“We are not going to your cottage, or to Kerrett House,” said Holmes. “At least not immediately. Our way first leads us to the offices of Mr. Weekes.” He tapped his pocket, where the telegrams now rested. “He is expecting us.”
Five minutes later, we had traversed the typical village high street to arrive at the door of Mr. Weekes’s small but well-kept law office. Holmes turned to us and said quietly, “Perhaps it might be best to allow me to do the talking.” Then he led us inside.
Mr. Weekes’s law office was on the first floor above a sweet shop. The incongruity of this made me smile, but only to myself. I sensed that there was a grim purpose to this visit, and that Holmes was not simply stopping here to ask a few questions, or from a feeling of good fellowship.
Upstairs, the clerk appeared to have been expecting us, and appeared to be nervous in Holmes’s presence. As he led us into Weeke’s office, he kept glancing anxiously toward Holmes.
Weeke’s office was a room that must have taken up most of the space on that floor. There were a number of old legal tomes filling fine-looking shelves around three of the walls, while the fourth wall was a large window overlooking the street. Weekes’s desk was centered before this window, and at a different time of day, the sun would have been behind his back. Holmes had used this trick before, placing his chair in the Baker Street sitting room with its back to his chemical corner and the window behind, allowing him to watch visitors in the basket chair while he appeared to them to be shadowed.
Fortunately, the sun had not yet crossed to the point where it would shine in our faces, and I could see that Weekes was a wiry fellow, probably in his fifties. He stood and came from behind the desk, offering us his hand. While we found chairs, he stood beside the desk, and I was shocked to see that as he waited there before resuming his seat, he leaned back on one leg, as if – one might say – sitting on a shooting stick. It is not often that I can anticipate Holmes’s thoughts move for move, but on this occasion, I saw that Holmes had noticed it as well, and I began to have some inkling or intuition about at least one thing that might be discussed or revealed in this room very soon.
Weekes settled himself behind the desk and moved some papers away from him. He seemed to be rather fidgety, but I did not know if this was his usual manner of existence, or if it was related to our visit.
“I received your wire, Mr. Holmes, and I’ve had my clerk pull the files relating to the unfortunate Felton family.” He clucked his tongue and pulled the papers back in his direction. He looked down and turned over the top two or three sheets. “Most unfortunate.”
“I have been relating some of the history of the events of 1878 for the doctor, who was not previously aware of any of it,” said Holmes. “Mrs. Grimshaw knows about some aspects of the matter, as you are aware.” Weekes nodded but did not speak. “Perhaps,” said Holmes, “you recall our conversation in these rooms some four-and-a-half years ago, following the suicide of Ted Felton.” Weekes nodded again. “Would you care to relate the details of that suicide for Doctor Watson and Mrs. Grimshaw?”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Weekes, again glancing at his papers. Then he pushed them aside again, laced his fingers, and began to speak. “It was a few weeks after the facts regarding his father’s murder, as well as the separate incident of his implication in the burglary ring, first came to light in the press. As you may recall, it was a nine days’ wonder. The group of men who had been murdered, those who came to be known as ‘The Suicide Club,’ were all considered together as a group, and as such were simply names that were quickly forgotten. But Clifton Felton came under a special and intense scrutiny, as his story was augmented and made more interesting due to the related account of the burglaries. This too was soon forgotten, at least by many, although it was obviously still a subject of talk for a longer time around these parts.
“Ted shouldn’t have let himself be bothered by it. He had inherited a substantial income from his mother, who was a fine woman, if I may say so. A fine woman indeed. Her money was set aside in her will for Ted, and had been kept separate from Clifton Felton’s finances. Young Ted could have chosen to return to Oxford, or anywhere else, with no difficulty at all. But he was always a sensitive lad, very intelligent. Much too sensitive for the burdens that the discovery of Felton’s crimes placed upon him. He took after his mother in that respect, poor woman. Finally, when it all became too much for him, Ted left a note in his Oxford lodgings saying as much and threw himself into the Thames. The river isn’t very intimidating at that point, but if a man is set on ending his life, he won’t let that stop him.”
“I understood at the time that he was working in town there, and attempting to carry out studies as well,” said Holmes.
“That’s right,” said Weekes. “However, he never seemed to be able to settle on exactly what field of study would suit him best. He was always interested in the sciences, and particularly physics and astronomy, but he just did not have the mathematical aptitude to get started. Time and again he would plunge off in some new direction, only to be disappointed. I had hoped he might return to this part of England and read for the law, but he wanted to remain in Oxford. He only returned here to visit Clifton Felton on a very irregular basis. I believe that they did not get along all that well with one another, and that living in this area pained him somehow.”
“Not true,” interrupted Mrs. Grimshaw, speaking for the first time in a while, and forgetting Holmes’s injunction to allow him to carry the conversation. “Mr. Clifton and Ted were warm enough to each other. In all the years I dealt with them, I never saw any signs of disagreement. And if he didn’t have any feelings for his father, why then would he feel the need to do away with himself upon his father’s death?”
Weekes seemed nonplussed at Mrs. Grimshaw’s argument. “I, um, well, based on my experience, I – ”
“I believe that we have had enough of this charade,” said Holmes impatiently, reaching into his pocket for the telegrams that he had received at the station. “Were you aware, Mr. Weekes, that Ted Felton is back at Kerrett House? That he has been back for at least several weeks, if not longer?”
Weekes’s jaw dropped in surprise before he recovered himself. He straightened in his chair, and his gaze shot to the right as he stared into the distance for a few seconds and collected his thoughts. He cleared his throat several times, and then said, rather weakly I thought, “Not possible. Ted committed suicide. That is an established fact.”
“Nonsense,” said Holmes. “After the full truth about his father was revealed in 1878, it was obvious that the young man was under a great deal of stress. That much is true – I observed it myself. As obvious as it was that he was a rather weak young man – like his father – who might break as you have suggested.” Weekes bristled at this statement, but Holmes continued. “When he disappeared, I could not believe that he would actually kill himself because of what had happened. You are correct when you state that the matter was quickly forgotten, even in Oxford. I made some inquiries of my own at the time, and determined that a man closely matching Ted’s description left Oxford on the night of his supposed death and made his way to Belgium. I was satisfied then that he had not killed himself, but had simply chosen to escape from the attention he was receiving related to his father’s crimes and subsequent death.
“I had a few quiet words with the police, and they tended to agree with me, although with no hard evidence to the contrary, such as tracking the young man down and dragging him home, the suicide verdict still stood. No one, myself included, felt that it was worthwhile to go and find the young man on the Continent, since he had committed no crime. I was content to let the matter rest, and wish Ted Felton good luck with his decision to begin a new life elsewhere, even if that new life began with a faked suicide.
“Today, Mrs. Grimshaw came to me with the story that she has seen Ted Felton staring down from the windows of the great house for the last couple of weeks. She truly believed that he had died over four years ago, but I knew that in all likelihood he still lived, and had simply returned home, although choosing to do so in secret, without telling his father about his decision. That is, without telling you, Mr. Weekes, he had done so, as it is highly unlikely that he knows you are his real father.”
Weekes was folding and unfolding his fingers, shaking his head. “I don’t understand. I simply don’t understand.”
“It’s time to come clean, Weekes,” said Holmes. “You aided Ted Felton when he left the country after Clifton Felton’s death, because he is your son, whether he knew it or not. I heard something of the matter in ’78, about how you had first loved Ted’s mother years ago, before she eventually chose another and married the much older and wealthier Clifton Felton. As it wasn’t relevant at the time, I saw no need to pursue it, but I did not forget it. Perhaps, if I had questioned you then, I would have learned that you had helped Ted in his quest to leave the country. But I had moved on to other matters.
“While supposedly carrying out the terms of settling Ted’s estate, you arranged for the small cottage, Kerrett’s Rood, to be transferred to the Grimshaws, and for the rest of the estate to continue to be kept up as well, should Ted ever decide to return. Using his money that he inherited from his mother, you paid the bills, and you provided funds as necessary to Ted, who I presume was still in Belgium until recently.”
“But why would he come back? Why now? And why wouldn’t he tell me?”
Holmes slapped another telegram onto the desk. “I believe this is why. Steven Wells, one of Clifton Felton’s partners in the robbery ring, died while in Dartmoor, but the other, Albert Sykes, was released from prison two months ago, early as it turns out, for good behavior. Tell me,” he said, “how much of Ted Felton’s current vitae is contained in that file?” He pointed to the papers by Weekes’s trembling fingers.
“Nothing too specific,” he replied. “But enough to find him if I need him. His current address. The name that he is using on the Continent. There is nothing specifically saying that the alias is Ted’s but the fact that it is in the file would be… suggestive, as there is no other clarifying context with it, should anyone happen to look with the idea that Ted is still alive and living elsewhere under another name.”
“Have you had any signs of a break-in in the last month or so?” asked Holmes. “Has there been any reason to believe that the information in that file has been compromised?”
Weekes shook his head with some confusion. “No, no, nothing like that.”
“And what of your clerk? Is he completely trustworthy?”
“Who? Sykes? Why, he is – Oh, my God.”
“A relative?”
“Albert Sykes’s cousin, I believe. We are a small village here, Mr. Holmes.”
“I believe that we should call him in.”
It was only the work of a moment to break down the story of the nervous young clerk. He was, in fact, the cousin of Albert Sykes, who had been released from prison in February of that year. Sykes had not returned to the village, but had arranged to meet the clerk, Josiah Sykes, in a neighboring town, where he had revealed that he believed Ted Felton to still be alive, and that if he was, Weekes would know how to find him. Albert Sykes had then pressured the clerk into finding out Ted’s true location. Josiah was surprised, as he had, like everyone else in the village, believed that Ted had committed suicide years before. However, Albert Sykes seemed convinced, and would not take no for an answer. All that Josiah had been able to discover was an unconnected name and address in the Ted Felton file. That had been enough, however, to please Albert Sykes, and he had gone on his way.
While I kept an eye on the clerk, Holmes stepped out and summoned a constable. After identifying himself, the constable snapped to with a smart, “Yes, sir!” Holmes explained that Josiah Sykes had vital information in a case and needed to be kept incommunicado for the time being. It was a tribute to Holmes’s increasing fame and notoriety that his wishes were carried out without question.
“There is no doubt,” added Holmes, “that Albert Sykes contacted young Ted, and did something to convince him to return to this country, where he has taken up residence in Kerrett Hall.”
“But why?” asked Weekes.
“I believe that if Sykes is involved, it must relate somehow to the old burglary ring. Perhaps Sykes knows something that he is using to blackmail Ted. We will only find out by asking him.”
“But what do you suggest, Mr. Holmes,” said Weekes. “We cannot just go up and knock on the front door.”
“I still have the key,” interrupted Mrs. Grimshaw.
“It does not matter,” replied Weekes. “If he is in there and does not want to be found, he will bolt, and we won’t find him.”
“By way of the house’s secret?” asked Holmes. “How much did he reveal to you before he left the country.”
Weekes swallowed once or twice, and then said, “Not everything. Just that he had found how Felton was able to leave and return without detection, and how the stolen items had been moved the same way into the basement. It seemed to add to his shame, as if, by discovering it, the facts of the matter became more real to him somehow. But he never told me what it was. He said… he said that it would die with him. I was sure that he meant that the secret would go with him when he faked his death. Could he mean…?”
“Mr. Weekes, that unfortunate young man, who was so shamed by the one that he believes to be his father – he does still believe that Clifton Felton is still his father, doesn’t he?”
Weekes nodded. “I could not harm my precious Emily’s reputation by revealing the true facts of the matter, and the… bargain that she made with Felton when she chose him over me at the end of it all.”
Holmes continued, “Then Ted Felton, who was somehow pressured by the criminal Sykes to return from his exile, has been living alone in that house for weeks, caught in what he perceives to be a trap. I am certain that Sykes is somehow trying to force him to either restart the burglary ring, or give him access to something that is still hidden in the house. In any case, we have to speak to Ted Felton immediately.”
“But I repeat, Mr. Holmes, that if we approach it, he will simply hide or bolt.”
“Then we will have to gain entrance from the other side, from his escape tunnel.”
“Escape tunnel? What do you propose? Do you know where this tunnel is located?”
“I believe so.” Holmes laid the final telegram on the desk. “I know a great number of people who owe me a great number of favors. It was relatively easy to get a line on exactly what is involved in the property owned by Ted Felton. Or should I say, properties. Mr. Weekes, doesn’t Ted Felton also own an empty house, located some little distance to the east of the property, on a dead end lane running away from the eastern perimeter of the Kerrett House estate?”
“Why, yes. Yes, he does! Is that it? Is that where the secret entrance is?”
“I believe so,” said Holmes. “Mrs. Grimshaw!”
With a start, the sister of our landlady sat up straighter and turned toward Holmes. “Yes?”
“Will you serve as our beater? Will you, at the appointed time, enter the great house and begin to call for Ted Felton, explaining that you know he is there? It may be that he will come out and speak to you. But if not, we three will be approaching silently from the other end, through the tunnel that surely begins in the empty house, and will bottle him up somewhere between us. Then we can learn what hold Albert Sykes was able to exert over him, and let him know that he has nothing to fear with our assistance.”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Grimshaw.
“And we can count on you as well, Weekes?”
“Of course, of course.”
The rest is quickly told. With a time agreed upon, we separated, Mrs. Grimshaw to return to her cottage, and Holmes, Weekes, and I to the empty house. Weekes had a key for the place, but before he could use it, Holmes examined the outer premises. He called us over to a window on the south side, shaded by overgrown bushes, and opening into the dining room. “This has been forced open, fairly recently,” he said. “This is how Ted gained access when he returned from the Continent.”
Weekes quietly opened the door, and we crept in, pausing a moment to listen for any sounds. Holmes had previously warned us to move softly, watching where we stepped in case Ted had left anything rigged to make a loud noise if disturbed. However, in the afternoon light, we saw nothing.
It did not take a Sherlock Holmes to find the entrance to the secret tunnel. Making our way through the house had revealed nothing, but in the cellar, there was a different story. By the light of several candles that we had appropriated upstairs, Holmes silently indicated the dust on the floor, previously disturbed by numerous footprints leading both ways between the stairs and a seemingly blank wall on the western side. It was but the work of a moment for Holmes to find an unusual knot in a board. We heard a small click, and a wide segment of the wall swung noiselessly open. I realized that the cellar was particularly and unusually clear in front of the path of this door, while the rest of the room was cluttered with old and broken furniture.
There was another candle in a sconce, just inside the secret door. Holmes lit it, and we could see an arched stone passage leading off into the darkness. It was at least eight feet wide, and nearly as tall. There was no need to stoop at all as we started down the tunnel.
As Weekes later explained to us, these houses had been built outside the estate wall by the original Kerrett, long before the road which lay atop the tunnel had been constructed. No doubt there had been some reason, possibly illegal, for the two to be connected, back in the early part of the century. It was never known how Clifton Felton had learned the secret, although Weekes was able to confirm that it was a good five years after he bought Kerrett House that Felton suddenly felt moved to buy the empty house at the other end of the tunnel, indicating that perhaps it was only then that he learned of the terminus of the passage leading from his own home, and he wanted to own both ends, for whatever reason.
The floor of the tunnel remained level as we progressed, and the stones lining the arched walls appeared quite solid. However, there were a number of roots hanging from the ceiling, indicating to me that the structure was perhaps not quite as stable as it might appear. I, for one, would be quite happy to reach the other end.
As we progressed, we occasionally came across other sconces hanging on the walls, all with fairly new candles within them. As we would pass each one, Holmes would pause to light it, increasing the visibility in the gloomy tunnel. With each candle, I could perceive that the air in the tunnel had more dust, or perhaps vapor, hanging in it than I had first noticed. I began to be aware that my breathing was rather labored, and as there was no climb associated with our traverse of the tunnel, I concluded that it must be from breathing the poor-quality air. Beside me, I could hear Weekes begin to wheeze, and as I glanced at him, I could see that he was breathing through a cloth clenched to his nose and mouth.
None too soon, we reached the end of the tunnel. We could all perceive a greater degree of brightness ahead. There was no door or separation. The walls simply widened out into a greater area, lit by a lantern standing on a rough deal table off to the side. A cot was located beside it, and there were several empty crates along the opposite wall. Across from us, as we stood quietly in the entrance to the tunnel, was a young man, ignorant of our approach, his face and hands pressed against a wooden partition that had been built across the width of the stone chamber.
He was listening intently to the sound of Mrs. Grimshaw’s muffled voice, calling in the distance, asking him, for I assumed that this was indeed Ted Felton, to come out, as all was known, and he would be safe. He listened for another moment, and then with a small sob turned away from the wall, only to discover the three of us in the tunnel entrance.
“Mr. Felton,” said Holmes, only to be interrupted by Weekes.
“Ted,” said the man gently, stepping forward, his hand stretched forth. “It’s all right. We now know that you are here. There is no need to keep it secret any longer. Everything will be all right.”
Mrs. Grimshaw continued to call from the other side of the wall, in the cellar of the great house, where Holmes had sent her. Ted looked over his shoulder at the wall, and then back toward Weekes. He seemed to vibrate, as if he were a string that had been stretched too tight for too long.
“Ted,” said Weekes again, and the string broke.
Ted sank to the ground, saying to himself, “I couldn’t find it. God help me, I couldn’t find it.”
Weeks and I rushed toward him, while Holmes moved to the wall, only taking another moment to discover the method to open the connecting door. While Mrs. Grimshaw stepped through, I knelt by the bed, pushing Weekes away as I commenced an examination.
“He is malnourished, and has suffered a great deal of mental anguish, but he will make a full recovery,” I said. “However, we need to remove him from this place. May we take him to your cottage, Mrs. Grimshaw?”
“Certainly,” she replied.
We managed to get the young man to his feet and through the connecting door into the larger cellar. Holmes stopped me for a moment to indicate how the hidden door appeared on the tunnel side, nearly invisible once the door was shut. He quickly found how to open it on the side of the great house cellar. “I was not able to discover this door when I looked several years ago,” he said. “It is no self-flattery to state that my skills have improved, and I would have been able to find it, if I had been given the task today. Do you need any help taking him down to the cottage?”
I indicated that between us, we should manage all right. Holmes nodded, and said he would go back through the tunnel to blow out the candles, and then join us in a few minutes.
We managed to get Ted to his feet, and he climbed upstairs on his own, although he paused once or twice going up. I stood behind him, ready to catch him should he collapse. Outside, the sun was just starting its descent toward the cottage, and was shining full in our faces as we walked down the slope. Looking beside me, I could see how pale Ted was, while Weekes’s shown with tears at the condition of his son.
In the cottage, Mrs. Grimshaw made a place for Ted on the settee, and then bustled out of the room, only to return in an unbelievably short amount of time, carrying a hot drink that appeared to be heavily laced with spirits. Ted coughed at the first sip, and then cautiously took another. Mrs. Grimshaw nodded, and then left, muttering about warming up some of the beef soup.
Holmes had entered during all this, and I saw that he was not wearing his Inverness or hat. Rather, the Inverness was rolled over, and he placed it on a nearby chair before centering the hat on top. “How is he?”
“He will be fine,” I said. “He has simply used himself up much too freely by living in that dark, foul-aired cellar, with insufficient food for too long. I imagine that his expeditions to look at the setting sun were the greatest joys that he had during that time.”
Ted cleared his throat, took another sip of the drink, and said, “You are right, sir. I tried to stay hidden, but sometimes it was just too difficult to remain in that dungeon. I wanted to get in and get out, but day after day I looked and couldn’t find it, and I knew what would happen if I didn’t. Sometimes I went up in the morning as well, but the evening sun was best. I could feel the warmth upon my face before I went back downstairs to resume my search. Was that how I was discovered?”
“It was,” said Holmes. “Mrs. Grimshaw noticed you. She thought that you were a ghost.”
“Not really?” said Ted, with a glimmer of unexpected but welcome amusement.
Mrs. Grimshaw returned with a bowl of savory-smelling soup. “Yes, I did.” She handed him the bowl. “You were thought to be dead. Eat that, young man.”
Holmes pulled a chair closer and sat down, facing Ted. I realized that Ted and Holmes were about the same age, each in their late twenties, but two men could not be more different. Holmes was hawk-like and alert, while Ted seemed uncertain and hesitant. I knew that it was not just the recent deprivations that gave this impression.
“We understand from Mr. Weekes how you came to flee to the Continent, leaving the impression that you had thrown yourself to your death in the Thames. But why have you come back, and put yourself through all of this misery? Is there a connection to the recent release of Albert Sykes from prison?”
“He had never believed that I truly died,” agreed Ted with a nod. “He thought that I got away with his treasure, and went to start a new life. A month or so ago, he found out my address from his cousin, who works for you, Mr. Weekes.” Weekes hung his head, but did not interrupt.
“Sykes showed up at my home in Ostend over a month ago. I wouldn’t let him in, but made him stay on the doorstep. That only made him angry. But how could I let my wife and son – ”
“You are married?” said Weekes with wonderment. “I have a grand – That is to say, you have a son?”
Ted nodded, unaware of Weekes’s near slip. “I met Sykes at a place by the water. There he told me what he wanted. He told me a great many things. He said that if I did not help him, he would rake up the whole scandal once again. He would reveal that I was still alive, and make sure that I paid for my father’s crimes.” He closed his eyes. “And he threatened my family.”
“What exactly was it that he wanted?” said Holmes.
“He said that during the course of their last robbery, he, James Stevens, and my father had inadvertently found, along with their other loot, a chest full of gold coins. They had brought it with them, and my father had hidden it in a secret place somewhere in the great house, with the idea that it would be split in a few days. However, before this could take place, Sykes and Wells were arrested, and my father was found dead in London.
“Sykes and Wells did not mention this gold, and he was greatly surprised that the man from whom it had been stolen did not mention it either.”
“Sir Wilton Cole,” said Holmes. “I wondered why he was not very grateful at all when his stolen property was recovered from the cellars of the great house. Now I understand. He was most interested in the recovery of the gold coins. I would expect that he had himself gained them in some illicit or illegal manner, and could not report them stolen without implicating himself. He must have believed that they were still hidden, as it turned out, or that I had found them myself and chosen to keep them. But he could say nothing.”
Ted nodded. “Sykes told me that Sir Wilton visited him in prison, trying to get Sykes to admit that he had taken the coins. He offered to assist Sykes in getting a reduced sentence, but Sykes told him nothing. Sykes knew that the coins were still in the house, and after his release, he went there on numerous occasions, searching for them himself. He came in through the tunnel which leads to the empty house on the other side of the road. When he couldn’t find them, he became convinced that I knew where they were. He sought me out, told me about the tunnel, and forced me to come and search.” He swallowed. “What choice did I have?”
“But you could not find the coins.”
“No.”
“How did you search?”
“The same way that Sykes did, I suppose. I knocked on walls, and looked up and down the tunnel. I went through my father’s papers in his desk, seeking a clue, but to no avail.”
“I believe that your weeks of effort, combined with those of Sykes, who was just as desperate as you, indicates that there was a good chance that the coins were not in the house after all. My quick examination while you were being brought to the cottage proved that as well.”
“So… so this was all a waste?” said Ted. “Sykes will not believe me. He will reveal the truth to my wife, and to everyone else. It was all a waste.”
“Not so,” said Holmes, standing and retrieving his folded Inverness. “When we found you, you said that you had been unable to find ‘it,” whatever that was. I decided that you must have spent the last few weeks looking in the wrong place.
Unfolding the coat, he revealed a wooden chest, about the size of a large family bible, its dark wood bound by ironwork at the corners. There was a broken lock in the hasp. “Instead of looking in the cellar of the great house, I examined the empty house at the other end of the tunnel. It was only a few minutes work to find a sliding panel in the woodwork near the tunnel entrance.”
He raised the lid of the box to reveal a small fortune in gold coins. They seemed to shine in the afternoon light penetrating Mrs. Grimshaw’s front window.
Holmes plucked out one of the coins, looking at it front and back, before turning it on its edge. “Look here, Watson. At the inscription on the side of the coin, showing a mint mark. That was a new thing that was tried back in the mid-70’s, but soon rejected. A box of them was stolen and never recovered.” He shut the lid. “Until now. I anticipate some interesting questions for Sir Wilton Cole before the week is out.”
He set the box aside. “How were you to reach Albert Sykes, once you had found the box?”
“He has come in the night on several occasions, but not lately. I have an address where I’m to send a letter. It was too risky to send a wire. Someone might recognize me. Instead, I was to write, and slip the letter into a local box. He will come within a day.”
“Then we must send him an invitation to join us.”
And so we did. Holmes dropped the short letter, written by Ted, into the village postal box, arranging a meeting for the very next night. We were there, Holmes, Inspector Lestrade, and myself, when Albert Sykes made his way in through the empty house and found us in the chamber under the great house. His attempt to turn and flee was blocked by the two burly constables who had silently followed him down the tunnel. His return to Dartmoor was swift and uncomplicated. Lestrade was quite pleased to return the missing coins to London.
The afternoon of the discovery of Ted Felton and the missing gold coins, we still sat in Mrs. Grimshaw’s parlor, waiting for Holmes to return from his postal errand. Ted had progressed to eating some cold slices of ham, but not too many, as Mrs. Grimshaw felt that any more might put a strain on his digestive system. Weekes sat by Ted’s side, asking and repeating questions about Ted’s wife and child. At one point, Weekes looked up and caught my eye. I glanced meaningfully at the weakened young man lying on the sofa beside him, as if to say that it was time to tell him the truth. Then I stood up and excused myself, taking Mrs. Grimshaw with me into the kitchen.
We did not hear their conversation, but in a few moments we perceived the sounds of both men breaking down, and by the time Holmes returned, the truth was known to Ted, to his great amazement and happiness. Mr. Weekes was overcome, planning a visit to Ostend in order to meet his new family, while Ted promised to return to Kerrett House and reopen it, making it a showplace once again, as it must have been early in the century. It turned out that Mrs. Grimshaw had been wrong, and Mr. Weekes right. Young Ted and his supposed father, Clifton Felton, had not been very close after all. Mr. Clifton, as Mrs. Grimshaw called him, had long felt a certain resentment toward his wife that he passed on to the boy, although they had maintained civil relations. Following the revelations about Clifton Felton’s secret life, Ted was more than happy to have found his real father.
Holmes cautioned that Ted Felton should remain hidden until the capture of Albert Sykes, and it was arranged that he would stay with Mrs. Grimshaw. Weekes agreed to tell no one. Holmes indicated that, while he had been out to mail the letter to Sykes, he had also conferred with the police, revealing something of the story to them, and making sure that Josiah Sykes could not notify his cousin of the fact that his activities were discovered before he could step into the trap on the next night.
As we stood at the door to Mrs. Grimshaw’s cottage, on the stoop leading to the West Road, Holmes said, “We must be getting back to London. Mrs. Hudson will be looking for us soon. And we did tell the inspector this morning at Stoke Moran that we would be available later today in Baker Street for any questions that he might have. He probably believes that we have fled the country.
“Might we expect, Mrs. Grimshaw,” he continued, “to be formally introduced to you by your sister sometime in the next week or so?”
“I believe that would be likely,” she said. “I would enjoy seeing Martha again, and this time it would be without any criticism that might come from bothering her lodgers with a ghost story.”
“Mrs. Grimshaw,” said Holmes, “feel free to bring us any little problem that might cross your path at any time, with no fear of recriminations from your sister. If your next visit provides something as interesting as this one, it will be most welcome, and if you have no story to tell us at all, that will be fine as well. However,” he added, “I suspect that soon you will be too busy to visit very often, as Kerrett House, and Kerrett’s Rood beside it, will soon welcome a new family and the new vitality that comes with it.”
And so it proved. The next week, Mrs. Grimshaw was “introduced” to us by Mrs. Hudson, who never suspected that her sister had been a client. If Mrs. Hudson wondered why we got on so well so quickly with her sister, she was too canny to say so. Mrs. Grimshaw visited off and on over the years, but on a rare basis indeed, as Kerrett House became a vibrant home for Ted Felton, that is, Ted Weekes, along with his wife and – eventually – his eight children as well.
Sir Wilton Cole’s future after the clearing-up of the affair of the stolen gold coins was not so bright. But that is another story entirely.
1 Editor’s Note: See The Suicide Club (1878) a collection of three related stories by Robert Louis Stevenson.