Trollheart

Again, I could see Holmes really felt the loss of his pipe, and to be honest I could have done with one too, but the lady's health was at stake, and as she was now also our client, it would have been rude and indeed reckless of either of us to light up. Holmes leaned back and closed his eyes, again pressing the points of his fingers against each other.

“It was early on Sunday morning last, the 17th, that the maid rose and went to the sitting room to open the windows, this rather uncomfortable heatwave we have been suffering through making the rooms stuffy and close by midday. She testified that, to her surprise, the door was locked, and voices could be heard from within, raised as if in anger or at least animated discussion. This maid, one with the – ah! - amusing name of Chambers – knocked on the door, finding it hard to believe anyone could be up and about at this time – I believe this all occurred around six o'clock in the morning? Her knocks went unanswered, as the people in the room continued to shout. As she turned from the door to fetch one of the footmen and confer with him as to what should be done, she heard a terrible scream, and the sound of something heavy falling to the ground.”

Mrs. Fraser nodded. “You are right in every detail, Mr. Holmes, but for one: Chambers deposed that she tried the door at quarter to seven, having been slightly late in rising, troubled as she had been by a headache.”

Holmes smiled tightly. “Ah, so. Yes. Well, you will appreciate that when I am taken off a case” - here he shot our client another annoyed look - “I tend not to keep all the details fresh in my mind. I have many calls upon my time, and cannot spare room in my brain for unnecessary encumbrances. As you say then, a quarter to seven. The footman gave evidence that when he arrived at the door all was quiet, and he admitted entertaining the thought that Chambers had been allowing herself to run off on a flight of fancy. However when he tried the door he did indeed find it to be locked. He then reported to the butler, who, armed with a set of keys, tried to open the door but found that something prevented him.”

“The key was still in the door on the other side.” I had not spoken since we had settled Mrs. Fraser in our apartment, and my mouth felt dry as I added my small contribution to the discourse.

“Precisely!” Holmes pointed at me, his eyes like those of a hawk seeking its prey. “Which tells us that whoever had locked it had done so from inside. One of the people heard arguing, without a doubt.”

I leaned forward a little, frowning.

“Did Chambers say how many people she heard arguing?”

“Excellent question, Watson!” grinned Holmes. “And one which, I am afraid to say, our good friend Lestrade did not ask, taking as his answer to the unspoken query the evidence presented to his eyes, and not that which might have suggested itself to his brain, had he considered a while longer and more deeply.”

Mrs. Fraser shook her head.

“It was assumed to be two,” she said, a little confused. “There were only two people in the room when entry was effected.”

Holmes held up his finger in the air, as if presenting it as an exhibit of evidence at court.

“Yes,” he smiled tightly. “When entry was effected. But what about before? Could there not have been a third person present?”

The confusion grew on our client's face.

“Why do you ask this, Mr. Holmes? The police did not.”

“Indeed. And that is where they may very well have made their first, and in your sister's case, fatal mistake. I will now describe for you the scene of the crime, as it was when I was called in. The lady, your sister, lay on the armchair, fainted of course, a bloody knife in her right hand. The body of her husband was on the ground, covered in blood. In his hand was found a fragment of a note, with the top part torn away. It read, as anyone who has perused the newspapers in the last few weeks or has followed the case knows:

live without you. You are my heart and soul. I will not lose you.

The name at the bottom was Frances, though it was not signed, merely written."

Mrs. Fraser stifled a sob at the reminder of the most damning piece of evidence, other than the knife in her sister's hand, which seemed to have condemned her to her fate. Holmes coughed.The key to the room, having been forced out of the keyhole from without, had fallen to the floor; I believe the butler trod on it when he entered. A thick smell of smoke pervaded the air. The fire had not been lit, nor would one expect it to be, for it would be a cold-blooded person indeed who would need warming on a morning such as we have been having in this heatwave.”

“You found the presence of smoke odd, Mr. Holmes?” It was either a query or a challenge. I thought perhaps Mrs. Fraser was endeavouring to see if my friend's reputation was well earned. He smiled graciously at her, as if seeing a kindred spirit of sorts.

“Did you?”

“I did.”

“And why, pray?”

He watched her like the master watches the promising pupil. I doubted our visitor had any aspirations in the detective line, but Holmes seemed to see a mind sharp as his own in some respects.

“Because Peter did not smoke,” said the lady. Holmes nodded.

“You are quite certain of this?”

“Oh, quite. You see, Fran is my twin, and she suffers from the same affliction I have from birth struggled with.”

“You both have asthma?”

“Indeed.”

“I see.”

I, too, was beginning to see. What man of any conscience would smoke when it might damage his wife's heath?

“I do not say,” went on Mrs. Fraser carefully, “that he still loved her.”

“Yes.” Holmes nodded. “I gathered as much from my interview with her at the police station. But I also gather divorce was not in the air?”

Mrs. Fraser shook her head vehemently.

“Oh no. Peter had far too much to lose, socially and even financially, by inviting such scandal. No, they kept up appearances to the outside world, and it was only the close family circle who knew that there was nothing but cold, shared self-interest between them.”

“She no more wanted a divorce than he.”

“It would have been the ruin of her, Mr. Holmes, and then there would be the shame and expense of a battle for custody of their son.”

“Harold, I believe.”

“Yes. He is a good boy, devoted both to his father and his mother; only nine years old, and currently at boarding school. To have to ask the child to choose...”

“Quite so. And so the parents kept up the pretence, but there was no love there.”

“None at all. Oh, I don't mean they hated each other, Mr. Holmes. Far from that. But any love there had been had long turned to ice.”

Holmes shook his head. “None of which,” he observed, “helps your sister, giving as it does a motive for her to murder her husband.”

“One the police pounced upon,” sighed the lady.

“Yes.” Holmes commiserated with her. “I am afraid that the adage 'if it seems too good to be true is usually is' has little sway in the ranks of the police department, about as much as deduction and logical reasoning. The guardians of the law sadly take things often at face value, particularly if it secures them a conviction.” He tutted. “If only they would take the time to look that little bit further...”

Mrs. Fraser looked at him, her eyes shining now.

“So you have your doubts, Mr. Holmes?”

“My good friend here, Doctor Watson, could no doubt regale you with accounts of cases believed hopeless, in which men were to hang, which my doubts were instrumental in being overturned. I do not admit defeat easily, my dear Mrs. Fraser, and I certainly have in no way, to use an old metaphor from my boxing days, thrown in the towel yet. There are many singular features of this case which interest me and give me hope that we may yet prove that your sister is no killer. But surely,” he steepled his fingers and looked at her over their tops, in that manner which always reminded me rather disturbingly of the entomologist studying the insect, “you did not come here merely for a progress report? I think you should know, Mrs. Fraser, I am not a man to -”

She cut him off though, something I had seldom seen anyone do, and were she a man he might indeed have taken umbrage at such impertinence. Holmes did not make many allowances for the gentler sex, but here he was prepared to concede ground.

“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, but you are of course correct. I came to you because I had to.”

“You had to?”

“I was... well, this is hard to explain, sir. I suppose you could say I was sent, guided even.”

Holmes groaned. “I do so earnestly hope, madam,” he warned her, “that we are not returning to the issue of this – this phantom you believe you saw vanish outside my door?”

“Well, yes and no.”

“Really, madam!” Holmes' ire was up now, his temper exhausted, and he snapped at her in the same way a policeman might a troublesome interviewee. His eyes were hard as flint, and there was a flush creeping up his pale cheeks, a sure indicator that here was a man not to be trifled with. Mrs. Fraser seemed confused. No, not confused, I thought, studying her as my friend had trained me to. Embarrassed?

“You will think me quite mad,” she whispered. A slight tone of accusation, bitterness tinged her voice. “I have no doubt you already hold that opinion of me, Mr. Holmes.”

“It is not,” he told her sharply, “for me to make that determination, madam, for I am not qualified to make such a diagnosis, though my friend Dr. Watson may have other ideas. I will confess I have rather had my fill of ghosts, spirits and phantoms this morning. However, we will reserve judgement on supernatural matters for the moment. Pray continue.”

“It was like this, Mr. Holmes.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. “I was in bed, hardly sleeping. I have not managed to sleep much, with all that has been weighing on my mind, what with poor Fran due to be...” She stopped again. Holmes waited for her to proceed. “Well, I woke – that is, I came out of the light doze I had managed to drift into, and what do you think I saw standing before me in the darkness?”

“I cannot imagine,” drawled Holmes, looking over at me with a look that said he feared he very much could imagine.

“Now, before you go thinking I am prone to fancy, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Fraser, with a touch of pride in her voice, “you should know that all of my acquaintances and family know me to be a most practical woman, someone who is not easily given to imagination or hysteria. There is no history of madness in our family, and while I am of course under a great deal of strain, I can promise and swear to the Lord Almighty that what I saw was real.”

“Do go on.” Holmes was idly looking down at his fingernails now. It seemed he was rapidly losing interest in our visitor.

“There was a figure standing over the bed. It gave me such a fright, I pulled the covers right up to my chin, shivering in fear. In that moment, it vanished, right in front of me.”

Holmes sighed, made to get up.

“Madam, I will do all I can to clear your sister of this heinous crime, but I really must protest at these... these ghost stories! Now if you would please excuse me, my time is very valuable.”

She did not rise.

“But I have not yet told you what was left behind, Mr. Holmes.” She visibly shivered as she said it. Holmes was reaching for his pipe, standing at the mantelpiece, his back turned to her.

She looked over at me.

“His name,” she said.

“Whose name?” I asked, as my friend seemed to have dissociated himself from the conversation.

“His,” she pointed at his back. “Sherlock Holmes.”

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Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018