The Defaced Men, page 10
I opened my mouth to speak, but Holmes silenced me with a look.
“I’m confused about one thing, though,” he said. “We’ve been led to understand that Mr. Fay has financial difficulties.”
“He has enough money to fritter, if not to pay his staff.” Then Mrs. Kemplah scrutinised Holmes carefully. “What’s your business in Loudwater, Mr. Sutherland?”
“I suppose you might say it concerns Mr. Fay’s fortunes, but certainly not related to investments.” Slowly, Holmes reached into his jacket, and pulled out an envelope far enough that its corner was visible. Then he seemed to think better of revealing it fully, and closed his jacket again, looking around him as he buttoned it.
Mrs. Kemplah nodded solicitously. “Would you say he’s in any mood to make amends for… I don’t know… any bad decisions in his past?”
“I could not possibly speculate.”
She took a long breath and drank the rest of the contents of her glass. “Loudwater’s home to several with claims to an apology of some sort. I mean, to dismiss us all just like that… Do you know how difficult it is to make ends meet after being sent away from a position without warning? And to find new employment in a village this size, without time to prepare the way?”
“What were the circumstances around this dismissal, if you don’t mind my asking?” Holmes said mildly.
“Your guess is as good as mine!” she replied. “We were all gathered together and told the news by his secretary first thing one Saturday morning – the seventh of this month – and then we were on our merry way that very day.”
“His secretary – who’s that?”
“Richard Bradwell.”
“Does he live in the village?”
“Heavens, no. And he wasn’t minded to stay in Loudwater after his own dismissal. He was in a fury, and was preparing to leave for the city immediately. It’d always been clear he was the superstitious type, always going on about portents and signs and suchlike, and if there’s a portent clearer than being fired for no good reason and told to pack your bags, I don’t know what it is. That morning he went on and on about having been summoned to Loudwater for this position of secretary, which hardly had prospects as it was, and then only being employed for three months. Though he’s fairly young, he’s always struck me as ambitious, wanting to see as much of the world as possible, and it was clear he felt he’d wasted valuable time indulging Mr. Fay’s whims.”
I said, “Then it seems that the engagement of this secretary, Bradwell, coincided with Mr. Fay’s tendency to stay within his house.”
I was rewarded with another scowl. “Well, that’s hardly a surprise, is it? Bradwell was engaged specifically to help Mr. Fay write his memoirs, which is what’s been occupying him, along with his investments. They’d spend long nights in the study, working and working, and then Mr. Fay would only rise late in the morning each day. Why men can’t keep to sensible hours, I don’t know, but they will insist that all meaningful thoughts occur to them only after dusk. Not the night before our dismissal, though.”
“They didn’t spend the evening in each other’s company?” Holmes asked.
“They did indeed – I was referring to the idea of ‘meaningful thoughts’, as they can’t have been discussing the memoirs. In a way, it was my good fortune that I heard them arguing on that night, because when Bradwell gathered the staff the next morning, I was prepared for bad news. Judging by his tone of voice, I’d say he’d been protesting Mr. Fay’s decision in the strongest terms. But it was all for nothing, as it turned out.”
Mrs. Kemplah sighed and raised her glass, then her head tilted to one side as she regarded its emptiness.
“I’ll buy you another drink,” Holmes said, “and then p’raps you’ll tell us more about Mr. Fay’s relationship with Mr. Muybridge.”
I didn’t dare look at Holmes, despite being startled at this new gamble.
However, Mrs. Kemplah only nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps that was the beginning of it all,” she said, still examining her empty glass. Then she looked up. “Did I mention Mr. Muybridge?”
“In passing. And of course we already know about their friendship.” Holmes patted the breast of his jacket again.
Mrs. Kemplah surveyed Holmes over the tip of her nose. For several seconds she remained in this posture, then she exhaled and said, “Right. And it’s certainly possible that Mr. Fay’s deterioration – as you might call his adoption of the life of a hermit – was linked to the deterioration of that very friendship.”
To Holmes’s credit, he didn’t respond in any way that suggested that this information was any more interesting than anything else we had been told.
“I had wondered if that might have been what inspired Israel Fay to contact our offices in the first place,” he said, and once again I felt to urge to applaud his gall. “Did Mr. Muybridge ever visit Snakeley Manse himself?”
Mrs. Kemplah shook her head. “But they communicated often, and they met in the city. That all stopped a while ago – and it isn’t likely to strike up again, in my estimation, ever since this business with the burned picture.”
I saw Holmes’s eyes gleam, but otherwise his manner was as nonchalant as it had been throughout the conversation.
“The burned picture?” he repeated casually.
Abruptly, Mrs. Kemplah rose from her seat. As she approached the counter, she said, “Benjamin? Do fetch the newspaper article you saved the other week. Oh, and Mr Sutherland would like me to have another drink.”
The landlord, Benjamin, bowed his head and disappeared into a back room, and when he reappeared he was holding a cutting from a newspaper. Mrs. Kemplah took it, then waited until he had poured out another drink before returning to her seat.
She patted the surface of the table to determine that it was dry, then produced the newspaper cutting and smoothed it out so that both Holmes and I could see it.
It read:
Tragic Death In Manor Fire
A fire in the east wing of Chaloner House in Bishop’s Stortford late last night had devastating results that went beyond the decimation of parts of this historic property, culminating as it did in the death of a guest of the Griffin family, Mr. Martin Chrisafis. Though no destruction of property can match the tragedy of the loss of life, local people who attended the scene and assisted in the eventual dousing of the fire discovered another loss: the partial burning of a valuable framed albumen silver print (pictured) taken by the celebrated photographer of animals in motion, Professor Eadweard Muybridge.
At the foot of the column of text was a sketched facsimile of the photograph in question, though it was so small that at first I could not make out what it depicted. Eventually I determined that the twin lumps at the top and bottom of the picture were actually tall mountains, the upside-down one being reflected in a still lake along with inverted pine trees.
“The link to Mr. Muybridge is clear,” I said, “but I fail to see the connection to your former master.”
Mrs. Kemplah emitted another short, sharp laugh. “If Mr. Fay was to be believed, he took that picture himself. There were several in the group that trekked around Yosemite, and while Muybridge might have been the so-called artist who produced the pictures, that didn’t mean he operated the camera on each and every occasion.”
“Is this a matter of contested authorship, then?” I asked.
“Heavens, no. Mr. Fay was pragmatic on that score. He knew his place and was proud of his time as Muybridge’s assistant, both in California and in Philadelphia. Some men are destined to be remembered as pioneers, and others are content to work in anonymity. As a housekeeper, I’ve more sympathy with the latter. People like me, we work diligently for no thanks, but without us everything is bound to fall apart.”
Holmes gestured at the newspaper column. “It strikes me that for this article to have caught your attention, and the attention of our landlord over there, the picture itself must have some particular significance.”
Mrs. Kemplah’s eyebrows raised. “Very good, Mr. Sutherland. I suppose it stands to reason that a solicitor is adept at burrowing for facts, but perhaps you ought to consider an alternative career as a police detective.” She followed her statement with another barking laugh.
Unaffected by the irony of her statement, Holmes smiled and allowed her to continue.
“Yes,” she said when she had finally composed herself. “This picture’s titled ‘Mirror Lake, Valley of the Yosemite’ and was taken back in 1872, if memory serves. I know this because Mr. Fay examined it often, and would speak of its origins to anybody who cared to listen.”
“You mean to say it hung in Snakeley Manse?” Holmes asked.
“For many years, until he presented it to Elias Griffin last year.”
Holmes pressed the tips of his fingers together. “The Elias Griffin who owns Chaloner House in Bishop’s Stortford.”
“The very same.”
After a moment’s thought, I blurted out, “But why would Fay give away the picture if he was so proud of it?” Then, as both of my companions turned to look at me, I added, “Ah. I suppose that might be further evidence of financial trouble, might it not?”
“That’s certainly the conclusion I reached,” Mrs. Kemplah said, “but I’ve no further information on that score. I did love looking at that picture, mind you. Now I have a copy of this newspaper sketch, though it’s hardly the same, is it?”
Holmes nodded sympathetically, then patted the arms of his chair twice to indicate that the conversation was reaching a close.
“Thank you for speaking with us,” he said. “Men in our position do well to be forewarned about all aspects of a client’s circumstances, and in my experience you rarely get the truth from the horse’s mouth. But now we ought to go and visit the horse, so to speak.”
As he rose to stand, Mrs. Kemplah said, “If he’ll permit you to enter the stables, that is.”
Now it was Holmes’s turn to laugh – a full-throated chuckle the likes of which I have never heard pass his lips before or since. Mrs. Kemplah responded with delight at the results of her wit.
I made to leave, but Holmes paused. “Mrs. Kemplah, I’ve no desire to interrupt Mr. Fay at the wrong moment, for fear of being sent away again. In your experience, what time of day is he likely to be using his dark-room and therefore wish to be left in peace?”
Mrs. Kemplah stared up at him. “Dark-room? I made it my business to keep the house aired and light. Mr. Fay works in his study, but that’s the brightest room in the house, with windows on three sides, and even when the curtains are drawn they let in daylight.”
Holmes bowed his head. “Then I’ll assume we’re safe to call on him. Thank you again for your assistance.”
I was about to add my own thanks, but in a single motion Holmes pressed a banknote onto the counter before the landlord, and then swept me in front of him and out of the inn.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Well, what are we to do now?” I asked when we were safely outside.
Holmes set off in the direction of Snakeley Manse. “To keep our appointment, of course.”
I hurried after him. “But Holmes – we have no true appointment… do we? I confess that this lengthy charade has my head in a spin. But you are not Frederick Sutherland of Garridge’s, and I am not… whoever you said I was; I’ve already forgotten. More to the point, Israel Fay still knows nothing about us, as far as I can tell, and will react no more kindly to our appearance at his doorstep than if we had demanded entry to his house when we first arrived in Loudwater.”
“I was speaking figuratively,” Holmes said. “We have been furnished with a great deal of information about our friend Israel Fay, and now I am determined to gather the last scraps before we return to London.”
“Then you see a certain link between the story about the burned picture and the threats against Muybridge? And that it supports your assumption that Israel Fay is the culprit?”
“I see only that each of these cases is interesting, and that both deserve my attention. As yet, the only information to be had about Israel Fay is from this location.”
“Unless we might track down the secretary,” I said.
“The housekeeper’s pronouncement was clear: he is out of our reach, and if anybody were to know of his current location, it would be his former employer – and I maintain we cannot approach Snakeley Manse for fear of revealing our hand.”
I nodded, then immediately shook my head to contradict my agreement. “But Holmes, only Eadweard Muybridge is your client. This sudden preoccupation with Loudwater, and unfair dismissals, disgruntled housekeepers and superstitious secretaries… I am sure it is all very interesting to those involved, but I maintain it need not concern us, if all that we desire to know is whether Israel Fay did or did not deface Muybridge’s glass slides.”
Holmes only glared at me, and it was impossible to know whether it conveyed scorn or guilty acknowledgement that he had strayed from the task at hand. It has long been my suspicion that Holmes’s consulting-detective business is merely a means of attracting people bearing puzzles to Baker Street, and that if other, more substantial mysteries were to present themselves by more natural processes, he would have no qualms in shutting our door to those in need of his services.
We passed the gateposts upon which were engraved the words ‘Snakeley Manse’ and then moved along a sloped driveway with low-hanging trees bowing over us at either side. I noticed that Holmes’s pace had slowed, and I matched it.
I saw through the undergrowth a wide, grey stone building with pronounced curves to its walls, giving it the appearance of a very squat lighthouse. Above a central portico was a gable with a large, circular window which put in my mind an image of the eye of the mythical Cyclopes. The many chimneypots atop the conical roof were evidence of a large household, but the walls were in poor repair, with crumbled pointing and ivy that clung to the lower parts in sporadic patches. As Harry at the Dolphin had suggested, the curtains at each window were pulled shut, despite dusk having only just begun to arrive.
“It is a most peculiar building, more like a castle than a home,” I said, “and though its name is similarly strange, it hardly suits the place.”
“What part of the name strikes you as odd?” Holmes asked.
“In truth, both parts. I assume Snakeley must be a family name, whereas ‘Manse’… is that not a name usually applied to some sort of clergy house?”
“Yes, specific to Presbyterian, Methodist and Baptist traditions. Perhaps what you find unusual about the term is its usage as a part of a name. Ordinarily, one might encounter a building simply titled ‘The Manse’, or if it is no longer in use by the church, ‘The Old Manse’. Any other appellation is most irregular.”
“I’d go further and suggest that the appearance of the house is hardly Presbyterian either. It’s far from the austere building I might have expected.”
“Quite so. It is most curious.”
I made to continue along the driveway, but Holmes held my arm. I noticed he was ducking low, and I copied his stance.
“This will be far enough,” he said. “Any further, and we may attract unwanted attention. If we were to leave this driveway, there would be no cover until we reached the portico.”
“What do you hope to see from this distance, then?”
“Signs of life.”
I peered through the foliage, which seemed to be growing darker by the moment. I saw strips of light at the edges and join of the curtains of the left-hand window on the first floor.
Holmes pointed at the same room. “That must be Fay’s study. Recall the housekeeper’s comment that it is the brightest room in the house, and spans its depth.”
“Yes, but—” I began. Then my eyes went to the eastern part of the house, and I saw that, despite a wide area of loose stones that would make any covert approach impossible, the trees surrounding that part of the building were so leafy at their tops that they shrouded the first-floor rooms and scraped against the roof. Similarly, even from our distant position it was clear that the treeline came close to the back of the building, and within the woodland was a tall wall which enclosed the house, presumably wrapping all the way around to encompass the woodland in which we hid, and joining with the wall that contained the front gate. As Holmes had intimated, the illuminated room was the only one on the first floor that had a window that would be without obstacle during daylight hours.
“Ah. Yes, I believe you are correct, Holmes.”
We watched in silence for several minutes, and the leaves around us grew darker still.
“I have seen nothing, Holmes. Have your keener eyes observed what I cannot?”
Holmes shook his head.
“Then what do you conclude? Might it be that Fay is not in the house after all? I mean to say, we have only the word of people in the village that anybody is in there, and only the evidence that the deliveries are accepted, and perhaps that is not directly after they have been left at the door. The notes and payments might be put in place at any time.”
“Very good,” Holmes said approvingly. “You are right that illuminated lamps are not enough to indicate occupation. It is more difficult to prove a negative than a positive, of course, so all we can do is to wait for confirmation that he is inside the building.”
“Confirmation which, at this time of the evening, would likely take the form of the light at that window being doused.”
“At either of the windows where light appears.”
He pointed at the central part of the house, and I saw that the large, circular window above the portico was indeed dimly lit. My impression was that this light came from deeper within the house, or perhaps even from the open door of the study, and that this circular portal was merely a corridor or landing window, grand and eye-like though it appeared.
I looked around me. The trees were now dark wraiths in the gloom, and the slivers of sky that I could see were violet.
