The Adventure of the Golden Hunter

by Jan Edwards

Christmas was an odd time at 221b Baker Street, given that neither Holmes nor I were in the habit of celebrating in any grand manner. At Mrs. Hudson’s insistence, we had draped swags of greenery on mantels and picture rails and placed a decorated tree in the window, but none of it could be considered elaborate. And as Mrs. Hudson herself had left to spend the Christmas period with her sister, our plans had evolved no further than dinner at The Criterion.

London sparkled beneath a recent snow fall, and the cold snap brought the inevitable flurry of influenza and worse to my patients. It was on returning from one such visit that I found a handsome woman of some thirty years seated by the fire, speaking earnestly with Holmes. Her velvet coat and hat of deepest blue, which perfectly complemented her dark auburn hair, were of the best quality and taste, marking her as a woman of means.

“Allow me to introduce my colleague, Dr. John Watson,” Holmes said. “Watson, may I present Lady Alicia Havingham.”

She turned to study me, intelligent grey eyes meeting my gaze with confidence. I decided immediately that I liked her and strode forward to shake her outstretched hand. “Lady Havingham. Good morning.”

“So pleased to meet you, Doctor Watson.” She smiled, almost apologetically, as if she had grown used to excusing her American cadence.

I glanced at Holmes for some explanation for her visit, but having made his introductions, he seemed pre-occupied. Holmes could be unspeakably rude at times, but his manner toward clients was usually impeccable, especially the fairer sex, though he admitted them to be a mystery to him. “Have you come far?” I asked her.

“No, not far. Do you know Rhyton Hall at all? It is just outside of Winchester,” Lady Havingham replied. “I have asked Mr. Holmes, and of course your good self, to come and investigate a matter for me. It would mean Christmas in the country, if you can bear it.”

“At the Hall?”

“At Rhyton, yes, though the family are all spending the festive season with my parents at the Dower residence, Rhyton House, which is on the edge of the estate. There are workmen renovating the Hall, and it would be simply impossible to entertain in such chaos.”

“I’ve heard of Rhyton. A substantial estate.”

“It is. My parents rented the Dower House when we first arrived in England, which is how I met my new husband.” She smiled at me, though not entirely happily, if I am any judge at all. “Rhyton House is beautiful,” she said. “Positively ancient. Why, it must be a hundred years old at least.”

“Rhyton’s Dower House is over three hundred years old,” Holmes said. “Built in 1573 to be precise. Rhyton Hall was built by the old Duke in 1816, which is when he added the red brick facade to what is now the Dower House. Because of that, I will allow it has a far more recent appearance.”

“So you do know it,” the lady said, her face lighting up in her amusement.

“Indeed I do.” Holmes’s nostrils flared in mild distaste, and he hid the gesture by crossing to the window to stare into the whitened street.

I leaped in to fill the gap left by his abruptness. “Lady Havingham. May I ask the nature of your enquiry?”

“It is a delicate matter of theft,” she replied. “The losses are known within the household, of course, but I very much wanted to keep this matter out of the public eye. I had hoped Mr. Holmes would agree to help, but he seems undecided. Perhaps you might persuade him, Doctor Watson?”

Holmes rocked back and fore on his heels, his back stiff and his gaze fixed on the street outside. I recognised the signs. He was unhappy with whatever business this lady had brought us. “I was just explaining to Lady Havingham that petty theft is not my usual domain,” he said, as if reading my thoughts.

“Oh, I realise you would not bother with such a trifle in the normal way. I had several times wished we’d good reason for an illustrious detective such as you to join us. Then, as luck would have it...” The young woman took an envelope from her reticule. “It seems, Mr. Holmes, that we are related, albeit distantly through your French Grand-mere, who was cousin to my own Great-Grand-pere. Not a strong link, but sufficient for my parents to extend hospitality for the Christmas season. My husband...” She laughed brightly. “Oh my, I am still not used to that. I was married only a few days since.”

“My congratulations,” I said.

“Thank you. I hope.” She sighed heavily and looked toward Holmes. “Things have not been quite as I expected. We are leaving for the Continent in the New Year, and we shall be gone for some months.” She drew breath, obviously considering her next words carefully. “If I may speak plainly, Mr. Holmes? Mine is not a love match. My family very much wanted it to happen, and I was happy to enter into it. That aside - I would prefer that this cloud hanging over him be lifted before we sail. He is my husband, and I’m sure you’ll agree any marriage that begins with mistrust between man and wife will never thrive.”

Holmes’s shoulders relax a little at that assurance. He came to take the envelope in those long slender fingers and flicked it open to peruse the contents. “An interesting family tree,” he said at last. “Well researched.”

“Why, thank you. I do so like a mental challenge. I’m afraid my love of learning has always governed my heart.”

I hid a smile. Holmes so often said such similar things that it was disconcerting to hear them from a woman. It was not hard to imagine them related in some way. “Come now, Holmes,” I remarked. “How can you possibly refuse Lady Havingham’s request when she is one of your own?”

“How indeed.” Holmes refolded the genealogy and laid it carefully on the table next to him, seemingly reaching a decision in that moment. “Before you arrived, Watson,” he said, “Lady Havingham was explaining how all of the missing items came from her trousseau. I think you will agree that is quite singular.” He turned, tilting his head to view her from an angle. “Tell me, Lady Havingham, were these items of any great value?”

“Not at all. Father has bought a great many pieces since we arrived in England as investments, and he has been generous enough to gift several of them to me. But the stolen objects were little more than trinkets. A small green figurine, Chinese I believe. Two French snuff boxes, and a pair of extremely ugly silver candlesticks. Thirty guineas at most. There was a small Dutch canvas not five paces from the candlesticks, a portrait of a young girl, well known to be worth five times all of those missing pieces together, yet it was left untouched.” She sighed. “I am not one to fuss over the losses, and I am privately rather thankful to see the back of those dreadful candle sticks. The gold hunter, however, was a Christmas gift commissioned especially for my husband. Poor Edward will be disappointed not to have it, but I suppose that it cannot be helped now.”

“Your husband knows what he is - or perhaps I should say was - to receive from you?”

“Lord Havingham had been unfortunate enough to mislay his old pocket watch, and I offered to replace it with a suitable facsimile,” she replied. “The original gold hunter had been his father’s.”

Holmes raised a questioning eyebrow. “Is it possible that his old timepiece’s loss was a part of this crime spree?”

Lady Havingham paused to consider for a moment and then shook her head. “No, I cannot see any possible connection. That heirloom went missing two whole months before. My brother Henry was with him at the time and he told me how Edward was distraught over its loss. They had been to the races, do you see. Edward is quite the equestrian, though he prefers hunting to the racecourse.” She smiled. “I am led to believe they neither of them had enjoyed a successful day.”

“They are gambling men?”

“Well... Henry abhors gambling. I was surprised to hear that he went at all. As for Edward?” Lady Havingham laughed a little ruefully. “No more than any other man, I suspect.”

Holmes tapped his steepled fingers to his lips, gazing at Lady Havingham from beneath beetled brows. “So both took a loss at the races on the day that Lord Havingham lost this ‘heirloom’?”

“Oh, please don’t think he lost the hunter in a racing transaction, Mr. Holmes. No, no. The timepiece was lost in a hansom cab on their way between the train station and Lord Havingham’s London club. Henry assured me they scoured the cab ranks to find the driver, but to no avail. The loss was no more than an unfortunate accident.”

“Unfortunate, then, that its replacement should subsequently have gone missing.”

“It is. I am so grateful to Henry for supplying a splendid alternative gift in such short order. My brother has always been so very good to me. But if I could get the gold hunter back...” She shuddered. “It seems so ridiculous saying it here, but I can’t help feeling these thefts are somehow aimed at me.”

“It may well be personal, though not in the way you think,” Holmes replied. “In view of our kinship, I believe I could lend myself to your problem after all. I do have a few small matters to clear up before I can leave town, but you may expect us by midday tomorrow, if that is satisfactory?”

The lady took her cue and rose gracefully. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I am most grateful.” She pulled on her gloves and clutched her reticule tightly in her right hand. “Good morning to you also, Doctor Watson. Until tomorrow, gentlemen.”

Holmes escorted her out, returning with a tell-tale spring in his step, and went to stand before the fire. I could only wait whilst he filled his briar pipe at an agonisingly fastidious speed before leaning down to select a spill.

“Well?” I demanded finally. “Why a sudden interest in this case? I can’t believe it attributed to this distant kinship.”

“I am taking the case because I’m certain there is more to it than mere theft,” he replied. “Lady Havingham informed me that the replacement gold hunter went missing from her locked bureau, pointing toward someone in the household with access to her private apartments.”

“Then it should be a matter for the police,” I said. “It has all the appearance of pilfering by a rogue member of staff. Some new addition to the house perhaps? Or one recently dismissed? Any village bobby could question a household over such a trifle.”

“Indeed he could. However, the lady requires more delicacy than the local constabulary would provide. My instincts tell me there is more at stake here than a pretty timepiece.”

“You are concerned over her choice in husband? A trifle late for that.”

“She did not say as much, but I believe she suspects the thief to be her aforementioned groom.” He peered at me, his eyes glittering. “I was almost inclined to agree with her.”

“Almost - but not quite?”

“Havingham was an unpleasant school boy, and I doubt that he has changed in essence. It is common knowledge that debt has forced Edward Havingham to sell a great deal of his family’s assets, but though he is a bully, I do believe common theft would be beneath him. The marriage is political, of course, and a good match in many respects. Ephraim Woodsford wants Havingham’s title for his grandchildren, and Havingham wants Alicia Woodsford’s considerable dowry, which he will have no difficulty in appropriating, now they are married.”

“Lord Havingham means to rebuild the family estate with her money.”

“Not an uncommon occurrence. Several wealthy American dynasties have bought their family a place in London society.” Holmes clamped the pipe firmly between his teeth, lit it with the spill, and stood gazing at the fire in ruminative mood. “Havingham is a proud and ruthless man when it comes to protecting the family name. It seems illogical for him to risk that name over such piffling trifles. There has already been a steady selling-off of the family silver, so I have no doubt he would sell them quietly but openly. Yet he is also possessed of a violent temper. He was admonished for a particularly brutal flogging of a fag when we were at school, and his name has been linked to a number of unfortunate incidents since then.”

“So you do fear for her safety? I’m surprised she had not realised his character before the wedding - she seems a woman of intelligence.”

Holmes sucked on his pipe for a long moment, examining the bedraggled greenery along the mantel shelf. “Havingham can be a man of great charm when he chooses,” he said. “He was described as a ‘golden boy’ on more than one occasion. Lady Havingham’s family doubtless viewed him as quite a catch for a railwayman’s only daughter. Even when that railwayman is a millionaire. He would not alienate them. So no, I believe she is safe enough. And I don’t doubt she feels capable of keeping Havingham’s excesses in check, with the help of this paragon of a young brother. But the fact remains that in that house there lurks a viper, and I could not vouch for the safety of anyone.”

“Then should we accompany Lady Havingham back to Hampshire today?”

“I have enquiries to make first,” Holmes chuckled quietly. “Have patience, and clear your calendar until the New Year, Watson. I foresee an affair of some complexity before us.”

Christmas dawned crisp and bright, and our train journey to Winchester was uneventful. “The Dower House is typical of its kind,” Holmes observed as our cab clattered up the driveway. “It was the original family residence. To the casual observer, it has the same Georgian elegance as Rhyton Hall, but dig deeper and you will discover a Jacobean manor. Below stairs retains elements of the Tudor, and the cellars are un-ashamedly Gothic.”

“You talk as if you know it well,” I said.

“I had occasion to visit in the distant past.” He pulled his Ulster close around him and said nothing more until we alighted at the doors of Rhyton House. A cutting wind blew off snow-laden Downs, and though the sky was blue, dark grey clouds limned the white horizon. “Things to come,” my companion murmured. “Clouds are gathering, mark my words.”

“Snow?” I glanced at him curiously. “It is the season, Holmes.”

“It is indeed.” He smiled one of his tight, fleeting smiles that told me exactly how wide of the mark I was.

The white-and-black tiled ceramic floor of the main hallway was loud under our boots as we entered the house, each step echoing up between ionic columns to a veritable cascade of chandeliers suspended beneath vast plaster cartouches. I had little time to take in much more before we were ushered into a fashionably furnished drawing room.

Lady Havingham rose quickly and crossed to greet us in a flurry of silk and lace. “Gentlemen. So pleased you could join us. Papa, Mama, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his friend, Doctor Watson.” She favoured us both with smiles. “Allow me to introduce my parents, Ephraim and Gertrude Woodsford. My brother, Henry,” she went on. “And my husband, Edward, Lord Havingham.”

“Hemlock. It’s been a long time.” Havingham advanced with his hand extended, a grin splitting a face that had once been handsome but was rapidly going to seed. The professional part of me recognised a liverish condition. The other half recognised a bonhomie toward Holmes that was plainly not reciprocated.

“Hemlock?” I asked.

“One of my first monographs, written whilst at school. Poisons Common to the English Country Garden.” Holmes affected indifference to his precocious plaudit, raising his chin to view the lord along the length of his nose. “Surprised you remember it, Havingham,” he murmured.

“You’ve met?” Lady Havingham asked.

“Most decidedly. We attended the same prep school not thirty miles from here. Hem... pardon me,” Havingham bowed mockingly. “Sherlock was a year ahead of me, but we had elder brothers who were the greatest of pals, so our paths crossed often. Tell me, does Mycroft still sit and ignore people in that dingy club of his?” He beamed at us both through slightly yellowed eyes. “He was never one for the sporting pursuits. Speaking of which I trust you will both join us for our Boxing Day hunt tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Holmes murmured.

His reply startled me. I knew Holmes to be an excellent shot and admirable boxer, and he had often demonstrated an extensive knowledge of horses, but I had never known him ride to hounds.

“Mr. Holmes, or should I call you Cousin Sherlock?” Mrs. Woodsford insinuated herself between her daughter and new son-in-law, a bird-like woman made smaller by her husband’s quiet bulk just behind her. “Enough of sport. You menfolk can talk horses later over your port. The afternoon is for us ladies.” She laid a hand on Holmes’s arm with that American openness. I watched him stiffen at the contact, but our hostess seemed not to notice as she twittered on disarmingly. “I have read all Dr. Watson’s tales of your exploits, and I was just thrilled when Alicia told me we had a connection. I simply insisted Ephraim here invite you to join us for the holiday.” She smiled, and I could see where her daughter’s vivacity stemmed from. The older Mr. Woodsford smiled affably and bowed.

“The good Doctor and I were pleased to come,” Holmes replied. “It is an honour to meet my cousins from the Americas.”

“The honour is all ours,” Woodsford rumbled. “Gertrude, ring for tea. Now Gentlemen, come - sit. Warm yourselves. Edward hinted at intriguing exploits when you were at school together, and it all sounds most exciting.”

“I should have said it rather ordinary,” Holmes replied. “And younger sons are seldom remembered.”

“Few would forget you,” Havingham said. “Holmes made an impression on the entire school. Mostly in the laboratories, which he blew up... how many times, Holmes? Two? Three?”

I have seldom known Holmes to be affected by the opinions of others, but Havingham plainly exerted an influence that was not welcomed. My old friend’s jaw tightened. “We should not bore these people with ‘old boy’ gossip, my dear chap.” He smiled with a mechanical tweak of the lips that was belied by steely grimness in his eyes. “Mrs. Woodsford, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am sure brother Mycroft will be fascinated by this new connection. Tell me, where are you from?”

“Boston,” Mrs. Woodsford said, quite emphatically, as if there were no other place it could be. “Why did your brother not come with you? I should very much like to meet him.”

“Mycroft seldom leaves London,” Holmes replied. “I shall be sure to pass on your good wishes.”

The afternoon and evening passed quickly, giving Holmes the opportunity to study the family at his leisure. In particular, he watched Havingham unwrap the gauze and crepe ribbons from his gift. The man had stared at the handsome silver flask for a long moment. “A hip flask?” he murmured. “How will I ever be on time with a snoot full of good brandy?”

Holmes watched without expression, but the flexed muscles in his jaw hinted to me that Havingham had surprised him in some way. The couple only laughed, and the moment passed as tokens were exchanged by the rest of the gathering.

There were thoughtful gifts for the both of us. A handsome pipe for Holmes and a leather writing case for me, which made me glad I had persuaded Holmes to include additional bottles of good port in the hamper we had brought for the household. I noted, however, that after their initial exchange, the old school chums continued to avoid each other as the identical poles of a magnet will do.

Boxing Day dawned near perfect for its traditional hunt. The clouds of the previous day had not lived up to their promise, and laying snow was already melting beneath a cloudless sky on a far warmer day than was expected. The thought of a few hours in the saddle filled me with some trepidation, yet I was looking forward to this event far more. I had not ridden to hounds since returning from the Afghan Wars and missed it a great deal.

The local hunt sported a full pack of hounds and some forty riders, and the taking of the stirrup-cup was a boisterous affair. Serving staff from the hostelry to one side of the green wove their way between animals and people, offering trays of warming tots of brandy, sherry, or port. I was surprised to find that neither the older Woodsfords nor Lady Havingham had joined us, but Lord Havingham held centre stage, dressed in full hunting pinks, chatting loudly with the great and good of the country set, and sipping from the handsome flask that was his wife’s gift to him the previous day. The younger Woodsford, by contrast, hung back, his horse skittering at the noise around us.

“What do you expect to see, Holmes?” I asked.

“I’m not certain.” He scanned the crowd and frowned. “Something is afoot. We must watch and wait, my friend.”

There was an order forming in the chaos as the Master of the Hunt sounded the pack-off, and we were on our way. Trotting at first, following the hounds at a clipped pace along slushy roads before we turned off into the fields, heading for a stretch of woodland high on the Downs. When the Tally ho! sounded, the entire pack took off at a gallop. riders and hounds streaming across the snowy hillside in full tongue. I galloped after them, but very soon found myself lagging behind even the stragglers. The older mare I had been lent possessed a smooth gait, but I was unable to stand into the saddle for more than a few seconds at a time before the pain of my old injury became too much.

I paused at the top of the combe to watch their progress with some regret as the distance between us grew ever wider. The baying of hounds and braying of horns and the hunters hallooing came clearly to me, but there was no chance of my ever making up the lost ground.

They had reached the lower meadow and split into distinct order. The less headstrong riders veering left toward the gate, whilst the rest pulled right, plainly intending to take the hedge at its lowest point.

One rider seemed a lesser horseman than the handsome dark bay beneath him deserved. He swayed and bumped in the saddle like a stuffed sack, his head flopping from side to side. The horse plunged gamely on, emboldened by the chase, eager to run with his compatriots and not be left behind. Then it leapt forward without warning, its front quarters rising in an awkward half-rear before stumbling almost to its knees. The rider lost his seat and was thrown in a flurry of limbs, hurtling into the whitened headland at fatal speed, where he lay motionless. Too tight against the obstacle now for safety, the horse refused the hurdle and bolted, rider-less, along the line of the hedge.

I held my breath, just for a second, willing the rider to rise, before the instincts of a military medical man took hold. Gritting my teeth against the pain of my leg, I urged the mare in a headlong downhill charge, reaching the rider before the pack realised he had taken a fall. I dismounted to kneel in the churned up snow and search the prone huntsman for a pulse, though I had seen enough death in far warmer fields than this to know that the rider was beyond help before I had ever started down the slope.

I turned him over and let out an involuntary sigh. Just as I feared, it was Lord Havingham’s fleshy features staring back at me. My hand moved from checking his carotid to closing his lids over stark, misting, eyes.

“Is he badly hurt?” The Master of the Hunt appeared at my side and stood gazing at Havingham’s body.

“Dead,” I replied.

The Master respectfully removed his hat. “Oh, dear God. Tragic when any rider comes a cropper, but Havingham had a good seat. Never known him take a fall at such an easy jump.”

“I was watching from up there.” I gestured up the slope. “His horse shied and took fright. He was taken by complete surprise.”

The man nodded. “Some horses will see tigers behind every bush.”

I sensed movement at my side and Holmes was there, adding softly, “Poor Havingham. He was a difficult sort, but I had thought to prevent this.”

“Holmes,” I said. “You caught his mount already?”

“It was more provoked than spooked, and could not run far with reins dragging around its fetlocks.” He nodded at the Whipper-in and handed over the bay’s muddied reins. “When Havingham dropped back from the head of the pack, I knew something was amiss.” Holmes bent suddenly to sniff at Havingham’s lips. “No odour of any significance,” he muttered to me. “Yet all the signs are there.”

His words chilled deeper than the weather. “You suspect foul play?” I said. “Surely not.”

“I always suspect.” Holmes leaned across to shield the body from onlookers and surreptitiously slid something from Havingham’s pocket into his own.

“Holmes...”

“Say nothing, Watson,” he replied, and held a gloved finger against pursed lips as more riders clattered to a halt around us.

“Is he dead?” Henry Woodsford demanded.

“He is,” I replied.

Woodsford nodded, his face passive but for the small “V” of concern forming between his brows. “Poor Alicia,” he said at last. “All this coming around again. If I believed in such things, I’d swear she’d had a curse laid on her.”

Holmes eyed Woodsford up and down as a mongoose would a cobra. “Co-incidences are seldom what they seem,” he said. “I am certain your sister’s spiritual well-being has no bearing on this sad affair.” He remounted and turned his horse back the way we had come. “Watson, I must get to London immediately. Give Lady Havingham my apologies and tell her I hope to return by the last train. Question the staff whilst I am gone. This shock may loosen a few tongues.”

Holmes did not return to Rhyton that evening as promised, but appeared at my bedroom door just a few minutes before the breakfast bell. “My room, Watson. You must bring me up to speed whilst I change.”

“I don’t have a great deal to report,” I said as I closed his door behind me. “I questioned the staff, but none had any idea what could have happened. And the magistrate ruled Havingham’s death as misadventure before the sun had set. He released the body for interment within hours.”

“I am not wholly surprised,” Holmes replied. “In dealing with a man of Havingham’s stature, a local magistrate would be eager to avoid any hint of foul play, and hunting accidents occur often enough to rouse little suspicion. That is not important at present. Before we left London, I sent an associate to check the pawn shops of Winchester, in case a relative of a maid or footman had been commissioned to pawn the missing items.” He sipped at the tea the maid had brought him and offered me a dark smile. “I had similar enquiries made in Town.”

“So you do think he was murdered? But why?”

“I know he was murdered,” Holmes replied. “It is the how and the by whom that are the burning questions. It was the theft of the hunter watch that aroused my suspicions.”

“Why would it be so significant? I should have thought a gold watch was a temptation for any thief.”

“Targeting that trinket in a house filled with wedding gifts of considerably higher value? And stealing only those items new to the Havinghams? Come, Watson. You can do better than that. I suspect these petty thefts were committed merely to muddy the waters. The target, my dear chap, was never the gold watch, but our unfortunate fox hunter.”

“But I saw Havingham fall. There was nobody within yards of him.”

“As you rightly say, nobody was close, yet something caused his horse to shy. When I examined the animal yesterday I found a small cut on its rump in the exact spot that I expected, made by a projectile fired from something like a powerful slingshot. It would not discombobulate an experienced rider such as Havingham in the normal run, but when that rider is under the influence of a mild narcotic, it would require little more than a sudden lurch to unseat him.”

“How can you be sure?”

“He was an accomplished horseman. His being drugged was the only plausible answer.” The smile Holmes adopted was genuine this time. “I am surprised you missed such obvious signs, Watson. Your medical instincts are slipping. Did you not notice his constricted pupils? His clammy skin? Laudanum is not an indulgence of my own, but I recognise its effects well enough. It was administered to him in that spanking new silver flask - knowing that Havingham would not be able to resist flaunting it.”

“So all that would be needed was to have his horse take off at a gallop and unseat him?”

“Precisely.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, Holmes, had someone wanted to do away with him, it was a plan that left a great deal to chance.”

“It was a serious attempt nevertheless. Conveying the concept of accidental death was paramount, and the perpetrator was plainly comfortable in the knowledge that if this bid did not succeed, there would always be other opportunities. Ergo, it must be someone within the household.”

“Do you know who?”

He nodded. “The same person who, amongst other things, stole the hunter and other gee-gaws. I await a few final pieces to confirm my hypothesis, but yes, I believe I do.”

“And of course, you are not going to tell me anything.”

He glanced at me and grunted surprise. “You wish me to cast aspersions on any one of the party without proof?” He rose suddenly. “When the Irregulars have furnished me with final pieces to this puzzle, I shall reveal all.” Holmes stripped off his tie and collar as he advanced on the washstand to pour water from ewer to bowl. “I am certain that the thief was not Havingham, which will please her Ladyship no end.”

“You’re very certain about that.”

“His surprise at the gift Lady Havingham had given him was obvious.”

“Because he was expecting the hunter?”

“Lady Havingham told us as much when she came to Baker Street. And recall what Havingham said as he opened it. ‘A hip flask? How will I ever be on time with a snoot full of good brandy?’ Plainly a private joke between our newlyweds.”

“He could have been covering his tracks.”

Holmes shook his head. “Havingham did not have the wit. With luck my final proof will arrive this very morning, and we shall be home for New Year’s Day. Now, excuse me whilst I ablute, Watson. We shall reconvene over our kippers and eggs.”

I was surprised to see the widowed Lady Havingham appear at the breakfast table, eschewing a tray in the seclusion of her room, as her parents had not. She looked composed, despite her complexion being made pallid by austere mourning dress and her hair scraped back into a black snood.

“Gentlemen,” she murmured as Holmes and I rose to greet her. “Do be seated. I stand on no ceremony amongst friends.” She frowned at her brother Henry, who sat at the far end of the table nibbling toast and hiding behind The Times, but did not comment on his manners. Having selected a kipper, she sat peering at it, as if wondering what it might be. “Odd how the eyes of dead things stare so,” she said.

“Perhaps you might start with eggs,” I gently ventured, “if the fish disturbs you.”

She smiled a wry smile. “I am not disturbed, Doctor Watson. I am saddened by Edward’s death, but we were not in love.”

“Nor was he your first loss,” Holmes observed.

She flinched, her fragile composure faltering for a moment.

“Holmes,” I muttered, “have a care.”

“It’s quite all right, Doctor,” she said. “It is no secret that I was married once before. My first husband also died soon after our marriage - the result of a tragic climbing accident in the Alps almost eight years ago.” A shadow crossed her lovely features. “Henry here survived, as did the guide, but Barnaby fell to his death. He was a good man. A little reckless granted, but I miss him still.”

“My condolences, then, for both your losses,” I said.

“Thank you, Doctor Watson. I...”

A footman entered with a salver. “A package for Mr. Holmes, M’Lady.”

Holmes took the brown paper packet, unwrapped it carefully, and picked a large gold hunter from the folds. “Yours, I believe, Lady Havingham.”

She took it from him, turning it over and over, examining every inch in wonder tinged with sadness. “Edward’s gift. But how?”

“The Irregulars,” Holmes replied. “Combing the back streets around the American Club for jewellers and pawn shops. Such a fine piece was easy to trace. They had it within hours. That it was sold to the establishment in question by a tall, auburn-haired American made it more notable still.”

All eyes turned to Woodsford. “I am hardly the only American in London,” he drawled.

“You were the only one to sell such a valuable gold hunter. Which, coupled with the slingshot that I have just found in your room, is quite damning.” He took the weapon from his pocket and carefully laid it on the expanse of white tablecloth that stretched between himself and the young American.

“Slingshot? A mere toy,” Woodsford snapped. “My window overlooks the stables, and I amuse myself taking pot shots at the rats.”

“So the head groom informed me, which is why I knew to look for it. On its own, it is no proof. But you also purchased a bottle of laudanum from one Bertel and Sons, Apothecary.” Holmes removed a bottle from his pocket and stood it beside the slingshot, and the two men stared at each other across the evidence. “Having retrieved Havingham’s flask at the time of the accident, I was able to ascertain that it was laced with laudanum - not sufficient to kill, but more than enough to render both mental and physical reactions dulled. Your target practise in the yard honed your skills sufficiently to fire a chalk piece at Havingham’s horse, causing it to bolt. When I saw the welt on the animal’s haunch moments after it threw Havingham, and noted white dust around the impact, I had already surmised the missile used was of the calcium carbonate common to these Downs. It was less likely to be noticed in the snow, and would not be out of place after the thaw. I had also noted in passing that the fingertips of your riding gloves were marred with chalk.”

Woodsford blanched as pale as his grieving sister, who sat dumbstruck at the revelations unfolding before her. “How would you prove any of that?” he said. “Do you also have this chalk missile in your possession?”

Holmes looked down to examine his cuticles for a moment before continuing, “Apart from the watch, much of what I have amassed so far is pure conjecture. In the same way that the French gendarmerie could not ascertain why the ropes tying yourself to your first brother-in-law were severed in such a very precise manner.”

“Henry?” Alicia Havingham’s voice caught on the single word. “Henry...” she said again. “...tell me it isn’t so. Mr. Holmes, surely you can’t be accusing my brother, of all people?” She stared from him to Woodsford, her hand raised to her lips in horror. “The flask,” she said. “You filled it from your own bottle. You told me it was a surprise. You swore me to secrecy. You lied to me, Henry. You lied to your own sister and took me for a fool. And then you murdered my husband? Both of my husbands...” She held the back of her fingers over her lips to stifle a sob. “Poor Edward. Poor, poor Barnaby. Why ever would you do such terrible things?”

Holmes glanced toward her, releasing her brother from his captive gaze. “I regret the need to be so direct, Lady Havingham, but the facts cannot be ignored.”

“This is intolerable, Mr. Holmes.” Woodsford slapped his newspaper onto the table. “It would be plain stupid to incriminate myself in such a fashion. What reason would I have to do all that you claim? What about those other thefts?”

Holmes snorted quietly. “Each of the missing items, including the original watch belonging to Havingham’s father - the catalyst for this whole sorry affair if I am not mistaken - were pawned in different London establishments. By a man signing the slips as Edward Havingham. A clumsy ruse to throw suspicion on your brother-in-law, should the police attempt to trace them. The flaw in that plan, according to my witnesses, is that, despite calling himself an English Lord, the seller was quite clearly American. I am certain the traders in question will be able to identify you. Once both Scotland Yard and the Pinkerton Agency have concluded their investigations, your state of innocence will change quite dramatically.”

“They were parasites,” Woodsford growled. “Both of them. Using my sister as a... as a... bank vault!” He got to his feet and paced the space between table and window. “Alicia, did you know Father paid Barnaby’s gambling debts before you married? And again after his death? Money drawn from my inheritance! Not yours! Your dowry was always safe. And your precious Lord Edward was just the same. When he took me to the races that day and lost a hundred guineas on one wager without so much as a by-your-leave? I knew he was the wrong man for you. He dropped his watch in the cab and I picked it up with every intention of returning it. But I quickly realised he did not give a fig for it beyond its market value.”

“You planned this whole thing way back then?” Lady Alicia stared at her brother, incredulity and anquish catching at her voice.

“In part.” He reached a hand toward her, and dropped it away when she shrank from him. “I did all of this for you, Alicia. Please believe me. My first intention was to discredit him. But when you ordered the facsimile, at great cost, and at his behest... I could not allow you to tie yourself to such a creature. I’ve gotta say, for an intelligent woman you’ve mighty poor taste in men.” He glanced at Holmes. “It is possible, sir, to do ill for the best of reasons.”

“Your motives are not my concern. Of course, I shall require a day more at least to complete my enquiries.” Holmes busied himself in buttering toast, the gentle noise of knife against charred bread loud in the silence that followed.

“There is a boat leaving Southampton for New York today,” Woodsford said at last.

“The Pinkertons will be watching that ship - at my suggestion.” Holmes reached for the marmalade and casually spooned a small quantity of the orange preserve onto his plate. “There is, however, a steamer leaving Liverpool tomorrow, Rio bound.”

Woodsford stared at Holmes as the inevitability of the trap was set, and the only course left open to him became clear. “Very well.” He moved to his sister’s side and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Alicia... I... Good bye.”

“Henry...” She leaped to her feet, grasping his arm to turn him back. “Henry, you cannot just leave us like this. What will I say to our Father? And to Mother?”

Woodsford extricated himself from her grip and touched her lips to silence. “Say nothing. Look out for her, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson.” He nodded to us both and strode from the room.

“Excuse me, Gentlemen,” Lady Havingham said, and hurried after him.

In the quiet that followed, Holmes set toast aside and served himself a large kipper.

“Holmes,” I said. “He murdered two men.”

Holmes raised a finger and shook his head. “Two men met untimely ends that were declared accidental by the courts,” he replied.

“But you can prove them wrong!”

“And when I have gathered all of the facts, I shall offer them to Scotland Yard. Until that time?” He shrugged and lifted a forkful of fish to sardonic lips.

“You cannot take the law into your own hands, man! I see no reason for sparing him the rope. He was no better than the men he killed, looking out for his own account at his sister’s expense.”

“Indeed.” Holmes looked up from his fish to stare me in the eye. “He is a bad seed and should be punished. Yet think about it. Once the facts are known, Woodsford will never be able to return to his family or society, either here or in America. Nor will he ever be able to claim the inheritance he was trying to protect. I would go so far as to hazard that his inheritance will not exist once his father is acquainted with those facts. Under those circumstances, what good would sending him to the gallows achieve? Only to cause pain to a woman who has buried two husbands through his vile acts. No, Watson, I believe his punishment will last a lifetime. And surely that is punishment enough.”