The Murder of Mary Russell (27 page)

“Well, not satisfied, since there weren't any answers, but he seemed happy enough to move on. Like I say, nice enough bloke, laughed like a drain when I told him about the robbery I once had here when the robber came and went in a taxi, of which we got two in the village.”

Neither Holmes nor Billy corrected him to point out that this would make it a burglary, not a robbery, but merely gave him a dutiful laugh. Holmes then asked the publican for the thread figurine, by way of a souvenir.

Interest having died down considerably since the glory days of the London press—apart from passing Australians—the man sold Holmes the grubby object with barely a quibble.

Outside again, the two men looked at the object in Holmes' hand.

“I'm not what you might call fastidious,” Billy said, “but I don't know that I want that thing rolling around my car.”

Holmes not only allowed the younger man to bundle it away in a sheet of newspaper, he agreed that washing his hands might not be a bad idea.

“So,” said Billy. “We're looking for Samuel.”

“He is certainly a person of interest,” Holmes agreed over a gush of water from the tap in the pub's yard.

“London, then?”

Holmes turned off the handle, frowning as he dried his skin with a clean handkerchief. “No,” he said, putting the cloth in a pocket. “Let us see if we can find a working telephone.”

This conversation with Mrs Hudson was slightly longer than the others, but no more rewarding. When Holmes had rung off, Billy peeled himself off the wall of the village shop. “A constable just went into the tea shop,” he said. “In case you want a word.”

The grey eyes concentrated on the frilly paint of the little shop as if attempting to drill a hole through its lace curtains.

When he made no move, Billy added, “You're Sherlock Holmes. He'd be flattered if you took an interest in his bones. He's not about to ask for your whereabouts that night.”

Holmes nodded, and they went across to the tea shop, confusing the waitress somewhat with the transformation of her absent-minded vicar. One question led to a dozen more, and one police station led to another. Before the end of the day, they were shown the complete collection of materials found on or around the gamekeeper's skeleton. At the end of it, they knew little more than they had when they left the Fordingham pub.

The sun was low in the sky when they returned to Billy's motorcar, standing beside the Portsmouth police centre.

Holmes had telephoned to Sussex every two hours, all that long day. Billy was tired, but not unhappy at the lengthy drive before them: without the monotony of travel to encourage sleep, the older man might drop in his tracks.

“London, then?” he asked as he pulled onto the main road.

“No.”

“But aren't we looking for Samuel?”

“To hell with Samuel Hudson—we need Russell. I was wrong to wait for a ransom demand. We should have set out looking for her from hour one. We've wasted an entire day.”

“It wasn't a waste,” Billy protested. “Unless you think it was a coincidence that Samuel Hudson shows up in Sussex a few months after his grandfather is found.”

Holmes did not dignify that with a reply. “Samuel Hudson would not have taken Russell to a Paddington hotel. We must look closer to home.”

He did not need to add,
We need to turn Sussex upside-down
. Billy could hear it in his voice.

D
espite the purr of the engine and the hypnotic unwinding of tarmac, Holmes did not fall asleep. Darkness gathered, but he stared on through the wind-screen, his clouds of tobacco smoke streaming out from Billy's half-open window.

After an hour, the driver gave up: if the detective wasn't going to sleep, he might as well talk.

“You buried her father that night. You and her.”

Holmes turned his attention to his pipe. “Mr Mudd, I gave my word that I would not speak of Mrs Hudson's past, ever again.”

“You really think this is a time for niceties? And anyway, this is me. I was there.”

The passenger sighed. “Yes. Burying him seemed the only way forward. Considering our resources at the time.”

“What about Beddoes? Why didn't he ever return?”

“That was my doing. No,” he said, feeling Billy's alarmed gaze, “I merely drove him away. After I escorted you and Mrs Hudson back to London, I took the train to Portsmouth and hunted him down. He was in the second hotel I tried—not that there are many first-rate hotels in the town, even now, and the man liked his little luxuries. He'd been a forger, once, by name of Evans. Another transportee on the
Gloria Scott
.”

“That's the ship her father was on, that sank? I remember the story, but not the details.”

“It was before she was born. Hudson had got into some trouble and signed on board the
Gloria Scott
to get out of England. It was a prison transport ship. I learned about it twenty-four years later, when a University friend by name of Trevor invited me to visit his home. His father, it later transpired, had been a transportee to Australia, along with Beddoes and thirty-six others. One of those was a fellow named Jack Prendergast who had defrauded a collection of City men out of an astounding sum of money. Prendergast seems to have bribed key officers and sailors into mutiny, which went bad when a cask of powder in the ship's hold blew up. Hudson, Beddoes, and Trevor were among the handful of survivors. They were rescued and taken to Australia. Beddoes and Trevor returned to England after a few years, rich—or so they claimed—from the gold fields.

“Trevor certainly spent time at hard labour, one could see it in his hands. However, when it came to Beddoes, the forger, I thought it likely that his return was less a matter of making money in the gold fields than making money, full stop. When I found him, he was spooked and poised to run, trunks packed and passport ready. According to Hudson, he'd told Beddoes some days earlier that the police knew all. The man's reaction, to flee England, seemed extreme to me. As if he were anticipating arrest, not merely humiliation before his neighbours.”

“If he'd escaped before serving his seven years, wouldn't that be cause for arrest? To say nothing of whatever he might have done in the mutiny.”

“The
Gloria Scott
simply disappeared: no one knew of her fate apart from the survivors. And it was unlikely that a country gentleman and magistrate would face arrest for a twenty-five-year-old crime. Embarrassment, yes, and no doubt a fine, but not enough to cause a man to pack his trunks and run for it.”

“Had Hudson in fact told the police?”

“No, it was merely a threat, to extort money. I, however, informed Beddoes that Hudson was not the only man to know of his sins, and suggested that he make use of that ticket to America.”

“It couldn't be him, could it? Who…”

“Came to Sussex on Wednesday? Beddoes himself would be in his nineties, if he's still alive. He had no legitimate children, hence the lack of a clear inheritance to the estate, but when I last looked, there was an American grandson who appeared to be following in the family tradition. In Chicago, I believe, where this experiment in the prohibition of liquor looks to be taking a very bad turn.”

“What about the other family? The one you were friends with?”

“Ah yes, Victor Trevor's dog certainly seized on more than my ankle, that Sunday morning. Victor never got over the revelation of his father's history. He did manage to marry and beget a son before going off to India, but that was the extent of his sociability. The son is still alive, I believe.”

The detective shifted around to retrieve his tobacco pouch, and switched on the little map-light. “Do you know, Billy, it's a good thing I never believed in omens, or the
Gloria Scott
case would have turned me against detecting before I started. It was a farce, that began with a dog bite and ended with failure: my client died and my friend lost his faith in humanity; I buried the villain and compounded my first felony by saying nothing. I drove away a man I suspected of forgery, rather than confronting that crime.

“The case ate at me for years. I even conducted a search for Jack Prendergast's missing fortune, thinking that some portion of it might have stayed in England. But everything I found pointed to his having taken the fortunes of six families with him to the ocean floor. And it's not over yet: I lacked the courage to dig that bullet out of Hudson, in 1879, so the police now have the thing. Utter failure, start to finish.” He jabbed his cleaning tool at the pipe with irritation. “The only good things that came from it were you and Mrs Hudson.”

Startled, Billy looked sideways, but Holmes was intent on his work. It took a minute before the younger man's thoughts could retrieve their direction. “Hudson killed Victor Trevor's father, is that right?”

“To be precise, he made threats that terrified the old man into an early grave. Hudson's true crime was blackmail, not murder.”

“And, Hudson himself. Was it you, who…”

“No,” Holmes said gently. “She shot him herself.”

“I thought so. I was behind her, so I only heard the sounds. And afterwards, I was never really sure. It seemed like some kind of a fever-dream. Guns, the woods. You. And then later…I didn't make your promise, but I never wanted to ask her about it.”

“She'd have answered if you had.”

“I know. I suppose I was afraid.”

“Of her?” Holmes sounded astonished.

“Of you.”

Holmes gave a shake of the head, and began to press tobacco into the bowl.

“Because
she
was,” Billy explained. “Afraid of you, that is. Not that she ever said, but she was always different when you were in the room. Formal. Careful, like you are around a loaded gun. Did you…” He stopped, trying to find a shape for the next question. The pipe was going at last, but Holmes did not help him, merely filled the car with smoke. In the end, Billy blurted it out. “Has she worked for you all these years because of some kind of…blackmail?”

A spray of burning tobacco flew into the air, followed by furious slaps and the stench of scorched wool. Once Holmes was sure he was not about to go up in flames, he turned to the driver in a fury. “
Blackmail!
Do you not know me
at all,
Mr Mudd? Could you
possibly
be unaware that of all the world's sins—”

That the car did not swerve off the road at Holmes' outburst was proof that Billy knew what the impact of his words would be. He kept his eyes on the road, although his knuckles had gone somewhat pale beneath the skin.

“Yes, sir, I am aware of that,” he said evenly. “But you cannot deny that you have some kind of hold over her, and have done since the day she and I came back from Australia. If you say it's not blackmail, I accept that. But I can't help wondering just what it is.”

Holmes let loose a bitter laugh. “And you imagine I set her up in Baker Street for my
convenience
? Because it made my life so carefree? Lad, it took years before I could feel at all certain that she wasn't going to lace my supper with poison.”

“Then why?” Billy asked. “Why did you…why?”

After a minute, Holmes bent down to pat around the floorboards for his pipe. Billy surreptitiously flexed his hands on the wheel, and started to breathe again.

“Call it parole,” Holmes answered, when he'd got the tobacco burning. “A French word indicating that a prisoner has given his pledge, that he would thenceforth walk a straight line. A prisoner is granted probation—a period of testing—to prove that he is not hopelessly corrupt, and that freedom under supervision might return him to a sense of morality.

“When I sent your…guardian to Australia, it was a clear and unfettered offer of freedom. She
chose
to return. She chose to enter into the agreement I had offered: that her past in all its specifics would be put behind her. Behind both of us, for that matter. I vowed that I would never mention it, never seek any form of punishment whatsoever, so long as she continued to walk that straight line. Your presence did complicate matters, but after a considerable negotiation, I agreed to extend her parole over you. I was not convinced that London would not tempt you, that the adventure and apparent ease of conquest offered by The Bishop and his ilk wouldn't pull you back in. But you never let her down. Or me.”

At that, Billy did swerve a little before catching at the wheel. “I never knew. That she'd had to ‘negotiate' for me to stay.”

“I was young, and convinced of my rightness.”

“But…”

“Yes?”

“The baby. Little Samuel. Leaving him behind hurt her. Bad.”

Miles passed before Holmes responded. “I was young,” he said again. “I thought a mother's child would be her weakness. I hoped to force her to stand alone. I may have been wrong.

“It also occurs to me that, having been responsible for their separation, I may be the one her son is out to punish.”

Traffic along the coastal roads was heavy, causing Billy to curse day-trippers and inexpensive petrol. It was quite dark when they passed through East Dean, head-lamps lit against the wandering sheep—and, as they got closer, the house's two guards, first Lestrade's constable, then Patrick Mason with his bird gun. Mrs Hudson had the front door open before Billy had set the hand-brake, but one look at her posture told the two men that there had been no telephone call. No ransom demand. No news.

The house was redolent with all the comfort a housekeeper could summon: warmth and light and odours from the kitchen that, even in his bone-weary state, set Billy's mouth to watering. She pressed strong drink into their hands, demanded that both men get themselves around a bowl of thick soup and a slice of fresh bread, then marched them both to their beds. Billy she shoved into the guest room, telling him that she had already telephoned to his wife in London, who did not expect him back tonight. Then she did the same with Holmes: not trusting him to abstain from the temptations of the laboratory, she accompanied him to his bedroom door and saw it shut before she would go downstairs.

Such was Holmes' state that he permitted it.

Not so long ago,
he reflected,
forty hours without sleep would have been nothing
…He eyed the bed (the empty bed) and decided that three hours of rest might restore some degree of wit, and energy.

Maybe four.

At 3:20 the following morning, Saturday the 16th of May—a day intended for garden parties with strawberries and cream—the silence of the old stone villa was shattered by a bellow from the top of the stairs.

“Mrs Hudson!”

The most long-suffering housekeeper in all of Sussex fought her way out of the bedclothes' confines, struggled into her dressing gown, flung open her door—to come face to face with Holmes, equally dishevelled and dishabille. “Why did you not give me these the instant I returned?” he demanded.

She pulled back to focus on the sheaf of pages beneath her nose. “What are those?”

“The photographs! What is wrong with you, woman?”

“Yes,” said another voice. “What
is
wrong?”

Billy's brown cheek bore seams from the pillow, having apparently not moved since dropping face-down onto the guest-room bed.