Sherlock Holmes (16 page)

“That’s incredibly generous of you,” I said. I admit I was surprised by Foxton’s compassion. It seemed most progressive that a man in his position should even
care
about the orphan of a worker, let alone arrange to have the boy raised at his own expense. I could see now why Foxton had been such a prized acolyte of Asquith’s during the recent welfare reforms.

“Of course, they told me I was mad – every one of them – that I couldn’t blame myself for something unavoidable.” Foxton shook his head. “Yet I proved them wrong. Given encouragement, the boy began to show an aptitude for science and mathematics. I arranged for his attendance at a good school, and when I heard talk of his abilities and dedication, I offered him a place here at the house during the holidays – somewhere he could continue his studies without pecuniary concerns.”

“You became his sponsor?” I said.

“In a manner of speaking,” confirmed Foxton. “I grew fond of the boy. We all did. I cared for him in the best way I could. I paid for his schooling, his upkeep, granted him an allowance. When he’d finished his studies he returned here to Ravensthorpe. In many ways he’s lived a privileged life.” He frowned. “None of that, however, can compensate for the fact he’s had to grow up without a mother and father.”

“The poor lad,” I said, although in truth I also felt a deep sense of pity for Foxton himself, who had clearly been tormenting himself all these years for an accident that had been played out a hundred times since the growth of British industry.

“The thing is, Doctor,” he said, “it left the boy scarred, impressionable; fragile, even. He’s constructed his entire existence around the notion that, one day, he might be reunited with his late parents.”

“It’s a thought that comforts many,” I said. “Christianity is predicated upon the notion.”

“Yes, but belief in itself is not enough for Seaton. He wants proof. Thus his preoccupation with that damnable machine. He’s fallen in with that spiritualist claptrap that seems all the rage these days. He’s obsessed with the idea that the spirits of his dead parents live on – that if he can prove that the human soul truly can exist independently of the body, then he might also prove that his parents still exist in some non-corporeal form.”

“How terribly sad,” I offered. There was little else to be said.

“It is a sickness, I think,” said Foxton, “for which there is no medicine.”

I nodded, rendered mute by Foxton’s unexpected openness and the strength of feeling behind his words.

“Right, tea then, Dr. Watson?” he said, deftly diverting the conversation before his emotions overwhelmed him.

“Yes, thank you,” I said. “Most kind.”

Foxton splashed a measure of the hot, brown liquid into a teacup and passed it to me. I saw to my own milk and sugar. “So, Baxter,” I said, still hopeful that I might gain some insight into the reason for Baxter and Underwood’s rendezvous the previous evening, “where does
he
fit in?”

“Baxter is a manipulator, out for what he can get,” said Foxton. “He befriended Seaton during his visits to this house. He attended some of my parties, you see, before I knew him for the man he really is. He used the opportunity to ingratiate himself with my ward and encouraged him in his foolish pursuits.”

“In what way?”

Foxton shrugged. “It seems Baxter believes all that rubbish. Before I knew it, he had Seaton attending séances and meetings in spiritualist circles. Seaton would return with his head full of nonsense, and as a consequence began to retreat further and further into himself. He no longer talked to me, and spent all of his time working on that machine, or reading books given to him by Baxter.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“The only thing I could. I confronted Baxter and told him he was no longer welcome here. I warned him that if he didn’t sever all ties with Seaton then I would expose his little scam.”

“His scam?”

“Oh yes, Dr. Watson. I’m sure that’s what it was. I don’t believe for a moment that the man was actually interested in Seaton and his work. Rather that he was using it as an opportunity to get closer to my inner circle and myself, to attempt to assert a political influence. Seaton is simply an unfortunate pawn in Baxter’s game.”

“I see,” I said. I wasn’t quite convinced by his logic – after all, filling a man’s head with spiritualism seemed a rather roundabout way of getting closer to his benefactor – but I didn’t want to interrupt Foxton’s flow. “So tell me – as far as you are aware, has Seaton abided by your wishes? To stay away from Baxter, I mean.”

“Absolutely,” said Foxton. “He’s had nothing to do with Baxter for months.” I didn’t have the heart to tell the man that just the previous evening, Holmes and I had witnessed quite the contrary.

“What is it that you suppose Baxter to have done?” asked Foxton suddenly, as I was taking a sip of my tea. “I understood from Professor Angelchrist that the case you were investigating was the unfortunate suicide of Herbert Grange. Is Baxter mixed up in all of that?”

“Perhaps,” I said, a little guardedly.

“Angelchrist said something about murder?”

I hesitated, trying to decide how much to give away. “Holmes plays his cards very close to his chest, Lord Foxton, but as I see it, there is no question as to whether Herbert Grange committed suicide. The case is more to do with motive, and whether someone else was asserting an undue influence upon him.”

Foxton nodded thoughtfully. “Well, as I explained, Doctor, Baxter is a manipulative man. It would not surprise me to discover he was blackmailing poor Herbert, or something to that effect.”

I took another sip of my tea, taking it all in. The sheer contempt in which Foxton held Baxter told a story all of its own.

“You knew Grange, didn’t you?” I asked.

“I did. He was a regular visitor here,” replied Foxton. “A brave man, a force for good, pushing against the tide to fight for much-needed reform. Seaton was very fond of him. Grange’s visits were some of the only times he could be encouraged out of those rooms of his. More than once I had to prise Grange away to introduce him to other guests.”

“How interesting,” I said. “Tell me, is Seaton here today? I should very much like to speak to him again.”

“Alas, Dr. Watson, he’s gone into town. Although I imagine he’ll be back this afternoon. You’re most welcome to stay and make yourself comfortable here with a good book.” He smiled, throwing his arms wide to encompass the bookcases all around us.

“My thanks to you, Lord Foxton, but I fear I have a prior engagement this afternoon,” I said. This was a half-truth, but I wished to return to Ealing to find Holmes and apprise him of what I had learned.

“Well, I will certainly make a point of telling him you called,” said Foxton, “and you are most welcome to return to Ravensthorpe at any point that is convenient to you. Yourself and Mr. Holmes, of course.”

“Thank you,” I said. “For your hospitality, and for your frankness. You may rest assured that I will treat everything you have told me with the strictest confidence.”

Foxton inclined his head. “I only hope I’ve been of some use.”

“Oh, I’m sure of it,” I said. I stood, and Foxton started to rise, but I held out my hand. “Please, don’t disturb yourself. I can find my own way out.”

Foxton nodded and held out his hand. I shook it firmly. “Good day to you, Lord Foxton.”

“Good day, Dr. Watson.”

Brown was industriously polishing silver in the entrance hall when I emerged from the passageway, and upon seeing me, downed his polish and rags and wordlessly loped off to fetch my coat. He returned a few moments later wearing a beaming smile. “I trust you got what you came for, Dr. Watson,” he said, helping me on with my garment.

“Indeed I did. My thanks to you, Brown.”

He nodded and returned to his work.

Feeling contemplative, and keen to get back to Holmes and outline all that I had heard, I hurried out to my waiting carriage.

I returned home to find my sitting room in utter disarray.

The furniture had been completely rearranged, pushed back into the corners of the room to create a large space in the centre. A neat stack of notebooks had been overturned and now lay in a disorganised heap. A chair stood atop my desk, upon which my papers had been scattered haphazardly, and an inkwell upset. Dark blue ink dripped monotonously onto a large, stained area of carpet.

In the middle of the room was a new centrepiece, sitting proudly in the space that had been cleared: a large, oak travelling trunk.

Holmes, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

“Holmes!” I bellowed, incandescent with rage. “Holmes, are you here?”

There was no response.

I stormed from the sitting room to the kitchen, and then upstairs to the guest room. There was no sign of him. Furious, my fists bunched, I stomped back to the sitting room to examine the offending trunk.

It was old and battered, faded from years of use. The banding was wrought in black iron, and it was tied securely with a leather buckle.

Upon its gnarled surface was a folded note, tacked in place with a drawing pin. I tore it free, unfolded it and held it up to the light, mumbling to myself in consternation.

Watson,

I have arranged with a clerk from Tidwell Bank for this trunk to be collected at precisely three o’clock this afternoon. It is to be transported directly to the bank and placed in their vault as a matter of the utmost urgency. To ensure these instructions are carried out to the letter, a new account has today been established in your name. It is paramount that you escort the object to the said establishment and ensure it is deposited securely before the day is out. Do not leave until you have seen the trunk placed in the vault with your own eyes.

Following this, make arrangements to meet me outside of the bank at precisely quarter to seven this evening. I trust you will not delay.

Yours,

Holmes.

“Hmph!” I said. “Typical Holmes.” Where in God’s name had he happened upon such a decrepit old thing, and what was in it?

Despite my being perturbed at Holmes’s presumptuousness, my interest was piqued. Whatever this was, it clearly had to be related to our investigation of Baxter. Why else should he make the arrangements to have the trunk deposited in Tidwell Bank, of all places?

Keen to know precisely what I was dealing with – and struck by my innate sense of inquisitiveness – I unbuckled the leather straps and folded back the lid. It creaked on dry hinges.

Inside was a mountain of old, yellowed papers. I grabbed a handful and leafed through them, scanning a few lines on each page. They were brittle and covered in Holmes’s scratchy handwriting, and appeared to be his notes on our old cases. I was half tempted to sit down and begin reading – I couldn’t help but wonder whether Holmes’s perception of events tallied with my own recollections and published accounts.

If it hadn’t been for my suspicion that our investigation might hinge on the deposit of these papers at Tidwell Bank, I should have offered to store them for him in my own house. As it was, I knew that any failure on my part to follow Holmes’s instructions to the letter might jeopardise our success.

I replaced the papers, closed the lid and secured the buckle.

* * *

The two men arrived from the bank promptly at three, as Holmes had outlined in his note. They were not, however, the clerks I had been expecting, but rather removal men in filthy blue overalls. Clearly, these fellows were employed by the bank to do the heavy lifting. By the look of them, I couldn’t help wondering what, in Henry Baxter’s case, “heavy lifting” might mean.

The chap who came to the door had a pugilist’s face; battered and scarred, with a nose that had been broken numerous times and a fuzz of close-cropped blonde hair. He seemed to me to represent every cliché of a cockney strong-arm.

“Afternoon, guv’nor,” he said, as I opened the door. “Dr. Watson, is it?”

“That is I,” I said, perhaps a little imperiously.

“We’ve come to collect your shipment for Tidwell Bank. Large trunk, if I understand right?”

“That’s right,” I said. “You’d better come in.”

Reluctantly, I showed the two men into my home, cursing Holmes beneath my breath. I’d taken a few moments to tidy the sitting room following his rather hasty rearrangement, but it was still an awful mess. “This is the trunk in question,” I said. “It needs to be placed securely in the bank’s vault.”

The man nodded. “Oi, Reggie,” he called to his colleague, who was lurking in the hallway. “Come on, give us a hand.”

The other man entered the room, and for a minute they stood about, sizing up the trunk. “Right-o, Reggie,” said the first man, “let’s get this on the cart.”

Standing at either end of the trunk they each took one of the rope handles, and on the count of three, heaved it up to knee height.

“Blimey! What’ve you got in here?” gasped the one known as Reggie.

“Papers,” I said, trying not to laugh at the expressions on their faces. “Lots of them.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” said the first man, and together they shuffled out of the sitting room, down the hall, and along the garden path toward their waiting horse and cart.

“I’ll just fetch my coat,” I called after them.

“Oh, there’s no need,” said the first man, glancing over his shoulder. “We’ll see it right for you. Straight into the vault, yes?”

I considered Holmes’s note, his precise instructions. “Thank you,” I said, “but all the same, I wish to see it placed in the vault myself.”

“Very well, guv’nor, very well,” he replied, obviously of the opinion that I was wasting both my time and his.

I dashed back inside and quickly collected my coat and keys, then locked the house behind me, fumbling a little with the lock in my haste. By the time I was ready to leave they had managed to manhandle the trunk up onto the cart and secure it in place with several ropes.

“I’m afraid it’s not the comfiest of rides,” said Smythe, whose name I had managed to determine by listening to the two men talk as they’d struggled with the trunk. “Up here with us,” he said, indicating the box at the front of the cart. “You can sit beside Reggie.”