Trollheart

II: The Writing on the Wall

“I wonder that a lady of your obvious standing does not come to see me in a carriage.” Holmes remarked when we had repaired to our rooms and Mrs. Fraser was settled in one of the chairs, the colour returning to her face. I took my chair and he as usual sat in his armchair, tapping out the remains of his last pipe. “Though perhaps the sudden decline in your fortunes explains this. Nevertheless, it is a long way to come, all the way from Sheffield.”

Mrs. Fraser's eyes widened, but I knew Holmes well enough by now to be able to follow his deductions. Nevertheless, I knew the faint amusement it gave him to display what some people had called magic powers, until he explained and then they tended to either laugh or nod, as it all seemed so simple.

“Your boots and your cloak, to say nothing of your hat, are of the finest quality,” Holmes observed. “However, if I may be so bold, they have not been, ah, updated, in some time. I detect signs of mending, and I do believe that is a small patch there near your shoulder. You have come from Sheffield, as is clearly evidenced by the return ticket you hold in your glove, and we heard no sound of carriage; indeed, had you arrived in one and fainted it would be a hard-hearted driver indeed who would not help you, or at the very least ring our bell for assistance, as I am somewhat well known in these parts. Therefore I conjecture that you walked from the train station – no, no! I am in error. Of course you did not walk. The scuffing on your boots, so clean and well kept otherwise, and that very tiny tear in the hem of your dress denotes the standard hazard of travelling on one of those blessed omnibuses.”

Mrs. Fraser nodded each time Holmes made his deductions.

“You are correct in every detail, Mr. Holmes,” she said, admiringly. “I feel that I have chosen wisely in coming to you.”

Something in our visitor's manner, the way she visibly seemed to flinch when Holmes struck a match to light his pipe, stayed his hand.

“You are averse to tobacco?” The question was said almost with a touch of irritation.

“You are of course master in your own home, sir,” said she, “but I would just point out that I suffer from asthma, and so even the smell of tobacco...” She trailed off, somewhat embarrassed to be asking such a boon.

Holmes shook the match out, put the briar pipe to one side, laying it on the table. There was just the barest flash of annoyance in his eyes, but it did not show in his voice.

“Then for the sake of your health I will of course forego my smoke.” I was impressed; I knew the pipe was to him as invaluable and indispensable an aid to his thought processes as a notebook is to a police constable, and that he was willing to accede to her unspoken request showed what a man he truly was.

“Now, if you please, Madam: your story, from the beginning, and pray leave nothing out, no matter how small or insignificant it may appear to you. It has been my experience that those things which I like to refer to as trifles often turn out to have the deepest importance, frivolous though they may at first seem.”

I noticed that the lady had removed her gloves as Holmes had spoken, and now she toyed with them nervously in her lap. In a halting voice – whether this was from her recent faint, or was her normal way of speaking I could not guess – she began.

“First of all, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I should say that my name will of course mean nothing to you, but should I mention another name you will understand perhaps why I have come seeking your help. That name, gentlemen, is Francesca Liebert.”

Holmes sat up straighter, his keen eyes alight with interest, the muscles along his arms tautening in a way I had often marked. He was intrigued. As, indeed, I must confess, was I.

“Indeed!” He made a motion with his hand, which I knew was a habitual thing he did, expecting the pipe to be there, then with a sort of irritated wave at himself dismissed the gesture, settling for stroking his chin instead. “You are related, I presume?”

“I am her sister. You will of course be very aware of Francesca's predicament, gentlemen. At this very moment she languishes in Pentonville Prison, sentenced to hang for the murder of her husband.”

Holmes nodded. “A most unfortunate and troubling case,” he murmured. “I was quite taken by some aspects of it. Your sister, sadly,” he looked sharply at Mrs. Fraser, his eyes hard, “refused my offer of assistance at the time, quite rudely turning me away. And as for the police, well!” He shook his head, looked over at me. “I am sorry to say that once Scotland Yard has its man – or, of course, in this case, its woman – they tend to become blind to anything which might damage their case, and so I am certain some very important aspects of the murder were overlooked in the rush to judgement.”

Mrs. Fraser coloured, her cheeks heating up at the rebuke Holmes afforded her, though directed not at her personally. “I am afraid Fran has not changed her mind on the matter, Mr. Holmes,” she confirmed, “which is why I have come to ask for your help. I know you are likely ill-disposed to assist us now, when we have been so ungrateful to you after you offered your help, but I cannot but help think that my sister had a reason for not wanting you involved.”

Holmes' eyes were suddenly bright.

“Yes,” He nodded, leaning forward. “I got the distinct impression she was trying to drive me off, lest I discover something she would rather remained hidden. Knowing my, ah, reputation for being able to see what others cannot – including very much our gallant guardians of the law – she feared I might unearth some secret? Something which might perhaps throw an entirely different light on the matter?”

“Mr. Holmes.” The lady's face had gone ashen again, and I hastened to move to the dresser, pouring her out a small sherry. She took it gratefully, sipped from the glass with dainty lips. “I am not a rich woman. I never was, but in the past few months much of my savings, including, I am somewhat ashamed to say, the legacy left me by my late husband, has gone on Fran's defence. Yet I fear that even the barrister whom I secured at great cost knew full well the case was futile, knowledge that did not prevent him from taking his fee.”

There was a hardness in the woman's tone, and I understood perfectly. Our own great writer of the age, Mr. Dickens, had underlined the rapaciousness and greed of those who made a living in the legal profession by bamboozling clients with extra charge after extra charge, papers for this, papers for that, appeals that went nowhere, costs and fees, until their client was both physically and financially exhausted. Another symptom of the general malaise afflicting the corpulent, complacent body of our legal system.

“Quite so.” Sherlock Holmes looked longingly over at his pipe, but mindful of the lady's breathing difficulties, restrained himself. “I have heard our English lawyers described as little more than pirates with a licence, and I must admit it is a description I can heartily concur with. So, if I am to understand then, Mrs. Fraser, you spent all, or most of your money on a lawyer, but to no avail?”

“Well.” Mrs. Fraser looked down, as if ashamed. “As you of course know, the verdict was a guilty one, and to not only my shock but, I believe, that of most right-thinking people, she was sentenced to hang. The date is set for seven days from now.”

Here, to our intense embarrassment and my own private dismay and sympathy, Mrs. Fraser broke down and wept into her hands. I was mildly surprised to see, as I moved to comfort her, my friend rise from his chair, go down on one knee and take her two hands in his as gently as a lepidopterist cradling a rare specimen of butterfly. Sometimes, the harsh coldness of Holmes' manner shocked me, even now, when I knew him so well, but this was not one of those times. Tilting the lady's chin up he looked into her eyes, which were shining with tears.

“Fear not, madam,” said he quietly. “If justice has not been done, I am the man to see that the balance is restored. Just gather yourself a moment, and when you are ready, pray continue with your account. And be in no doubt that you are among friends here; we will do all we can to help you and to prove your sister's innocence, if innocent she be.”

Wiping her eyes, Mrs. Fraser looked at Holmes.

“I imagine, Mr. Holmes, you are familiar with the details of the case, as you were involved in it until my sister asked you to refrain from investigating further.”

Holmes snorted. I could see his ego had been slightly bruised, and this was not something he suffered lightly. In the main, Holmes did not differentiate between men and women: a slight from one was exactly the same as a slight from the other, and unwelcome from any quarter.

“Hardly asked, madam. She all but had me banished from the police station. Most impolite.” He frowned, nodded. "And most singular, indeed." He coughed, a slightly embarrassed air about his next words. "One does not wish to, ah, as they say, blow one's own trumpet, but it is a matter of record that my reputation is such that many insoluble problems have been cleared up by my efforts, and many an innocent person saved from the gallows. While," he tapped his chin thoughtfully, "I could of course make no promises, it does seem strange that someone sentenced to die should refuse the help of perhaps the only one in England who could prove her innocence."

He sat back, made the gesture again which would have involved holding the stem of his pipe, had that article been in its usual place, protruding from his lips.

“I can only offer my apologies,” said Mrs. Fraser, looking ashamed, “and assure you that Fran had, I am sure, good reason to be as, ah, forceful as she was with you. Whatever she is hiding – and I do assure you, I have no knowledge as to what it might be – she seems willing to give her life for it.”

Holmes snorted again.

“That, my dear Mrs. Fraser,” he told her with asperity, “has been evident from the first time I met your sister.”

“Oh?” Our client seemed a little taken aback. I thought I saw some flicker of hope kindle in her tired eyes.

“Yes, it was evident from, well, many factors,” Holmes nodded, “but mostly from the rather cold way she met the news of her husband's death. Not a tear, madam, did I see, fall from her eyes, nor the sign of any. This,” he leaned back, steepling his fingers and looking up at the ceiling, “I am afraid to say, played its part in allowing Inspector Lestrade to come to an opinion regarding the killer. Not,” he added archly, “that the good inspector had any doubt, I am quite sure, of her guilt, he not having the mental faculties and the power for observation with which I am, thankfully, blessed.”

Mrs. Fraser started in her seat.

“Then you believe Fran to be innocent?”

“There is not the slightest doubt of it,” Holmes told her, as if he discussed the most obvious thing, against which he would hear no argument. “I had my suspicions before you entered our home, but as I was not required on the case I could not make those known to Lestrade. It is not,” he transferred his gaze from a contemplation of our ceiling to Mrs. Fraser's face, in which now hope was lighted, like a candle behind a heavy curtain, “for me to interfere with the official police for my own ends.”

Mrs. Fraser nodded, understanding.

“As I told you, sir, my fortune is not what it was. Yet of course I do not expect you to work for free, and so...” She reached into her bag, her brow creased. Holmes reached forward, staying her hand.

“As you probably know by my reputation,” he told her without the slightest hint of pride or arrogance, “I interest myself in cases which intrigue my curiosity, or have a very singular aspect. I could not involve myself officially, as I had not been invited to, but in my own small way I have been turning the facts over in my mind and it seems to me there is far, far more to this case than meets the eye.”

Again his hand strayed towards his pipe, as if it had a mind of its own; again he restrained it with a gesture of annoyance.

“Should you decide to engage me to look into the case,” he told her, looking into her eyes searchingly, “you are of course free to defray any small expenses I may incur in its investigation. However I would be churlish indeed were I to insist you pay for my services, when our legal system has already robbed you of almost all you have. No, my dear lady, I have no wish to be paid. If you know of me, you will also know that the pure prospect of an interesting investigation, to say nothing of the opportunity to save a lady's life and prevent a terrible miscarriage of justice is reward enough. We are at your service, my friend and I. You have but to command us.”

Holmes' eyes were shining with that light I had seen so many times before, when he was about to set out on a fresh investigation, that look of keen interest and – yes, almost eagerness – that he got when, as he once put it, the game was afoot.

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson!”

The lady was virtually overtaken with gratitude. Holmes waved her thanks away.

“I do not say,” he warned her, “that it is possible to save your sister, for in order to do so I must not only prove her innocence, but also present the police with the real culprit. But we shall endeavour to do our very best towards achieving that end.”

He rose to his full height, stretching his legs by the unlit fire and leaning his long arms on the mantel.

“Now, I shall relate what I know of the case, adding my own observations – which have not been shared with Scotland Yard, I should stress, as I like to keep my theories until they are ready to be revealed as full and unchallengeable – and you shall correct me on any detail I may have got wrong, or any point I may omit.”

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Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018