Sherlock Holmes - Found Dead Page 6

  I laughed uneasily. “She sounds as if her brain had turned, Holmes. Who could believe such stories?”

  Holmes eyed me seriously. “Children who had been brought up on them, Watson. Two boys who, from the moment they understood their native tongue, had heard of the wrongs done their father. How he had been trapped, falsely accused, imprisoned, and murdered. How this was all the plot of a schoolteacher to hide his own evil, who was assisted by wicked members of the nobility who wished him to continue to aid them in their own iniquities.”

  I thought about that and agreed. “Yes, I can see that. Children have no way of learning right from wrong save through what they see or are told. A small child continually told that the day is night, would at the very least learn to call the sun the moon. And you suspect the sons? One or both?”

  “That I do not know. Thompson’s wife died two years ago, a week after the boys turned twenty-one. They inherited, quietly sold the property, split what they received along with other monies their mother had, and both vanished.”

  His face became grave. “I am uneasy, Watson. The stable lad originally involved died recently. He had married his employer’s daughter and five years ago became a partner in the business. His father-in-law’s intention, I am told, was to leave the remainder of the establishment to his daughter upon his death. The boy—now a man—was found dead on the road. It appeared he had been accidentally struck by some large vehicle.”

  “And you think it no accident?”

  “I admit to uncertainty, Watson. The times fit too well, and I cannot let it go until I have found the sons and discovered if they were involved.”

  “And do you know their direction?”

  “I know where one has come to rest.” He looked amused. “You may scarcely believe it, but he has become a farmer.”

  “A farmer? What could a boy brought up in a London suburb know of farming?” I asked scornfully. “That’s some rumor, for it cannot be true.”

  “Nevertheless, it is as I have said. He appeared one day in a village, said that he was seeking to buy a farm outright, or to buy some portion of one, and those in earshot immediately suggested one belonging to a widow. A month later he had purchased a share of it for cash, moved into a cottage on the land, made considerable improvements to the cottage, and began to learn the trade. The widow is sensible, born of many generations of farming stock, and it is reported that she and the young man deal very well together.”

  I gaped at my friend. “How is that possible?”

  “There is an explanation. When investigating Thompson, I discovered that he loved animals. He had always a dog about the house, which was loved and well cared for. One son, at least, seems to have inherited that virtue. Or perhaps the lad thought the countryside was a place where no one would find him, and from there he could carry out whatever nefarious plans he may have.”

  “We need to find out. When do we call?”

  Holmes considered. “There is no reason we could not go tomorrow, should you be free, Watson?”

  I nodded.

  “Then let us catch the eight a.m. train,” he said.

  So it was agreed. I must say I was all anticipation to meet this unusual young man.

  5

  We entrained the next morning, bearing each a small overnight case, and great-coats for each of us, too, since the weather was turning inclement. I, of course, carried my medical bag.

  We arrived at the village station and went at once to the small inn, taking rooms and leaving our baggage there. Once that was done we rented the inn-keeper’s pony-trap and pony, donned our coats, and drove out into the country, following the directions Holmes had received. It took some time and, as it was now drizzling, we were thoroughly wet and disgruntled by the time we arrived at a gateway where the sign Stafford Farm was nailed to a crossbar. I got down and opened the gate.

  “Who was Stafford, I wonder,” I asked.

  “The family who owned the farm for some generations,” Holmes informed me. “The widow is the last, a distant cousin of the same name who married the only son of the owners.”

  “And now the Thompson son…”

  “His name is Charles, known as Charlie,” Holmes interposed.

  “And now Charles Thompson is likely to inherit, if what was said of the widow’s interest is true. I wonder, will he change the name?”

  “His, or that of the farm?” Holmes asked, faint amusement showing in his eyes. He drove the pony-trap through the gate and waited for me to close that and rejoin him.

  “The farm, of course.”

  “He may acquire it by not doing so,” Holmes said thoughtfully.

  Such a stipulation might be difficult to enforce once the widow was dead, unless Charles signed such a stipulation. I looked ahead and noticed a figure standing in the shadowed doorway. I could not see it plainly.

  “I think this must be the widow, for it seems too small to be a man,” I said as we drew up at the doorway. Holmes halted the pony on the bricks that paved the whole frontage of the house. I was right.

  The lady was around five feet and one or two inches in height and—to my confusion—was no more than in her thirties. I assumed that she was elderly. Quite the contrary. Was that the explanation for Charles Thompson’s desire to become a farmer? And was her liking for him more than maternal?

  The woman walked forward and nodded. “You do not appear to be salesmen, and I recognize that pony.” She stroked the soft muzzle. “Are you lost, or seeking me?”

  “We are seeking a person by the name of Charles Thompson,” Holmes told her quietly. She said nothing, but her body tensed slightly.

  “Oh, and why should you seek him here?”

  “We have information that this is his address.”

  She shrugged. “No one by that name lives in my house.”

  “And what of the shepherd’s cottage?” Holmes asked.

  She drew herself up. “Who are you? Police? Have you a search warrant? Have you proof that some crime has been committed? If not, you will leave now, at once…”

  A voice from behind us said, “What’s to do, Maria?”

  I swiveled in the cart seat and found I was all but nose to nose with a young man. He stood, feet apart and planted firmly on the farmyard bricks. He studied us even as we studied him. He looked to be in his late twenties, older-appearing than his true age, if this was Charles Thompson. His fair hair was a little long, his face ruddy with the tan that days in the open air produces. His eyes shone a bright blue, and his figure was well-made though not over-solid, while his height would be around five feet and some eight inches.

  However, it struck me forcibly that his whole aspect was that of a farmer, a man born on the land and knowing his place there. This was not—it could not be—the son of Jeff Thompson, city-dweller, blackmailer, gambler, and brute. Not this tanned and wholesome-looking young man who stood regarding me.

  Holmes stepped out of the dog-cart and said the one thing that might soften the heart of any animal-lover or good farmer. “We have come some way and the pony should rest a little before we return. If there is a barn where he might stand for a few minutes out of the rain, and a bucket from which he might drink, we would be grateful.”

  It was the man who acted. “Of course. Come this way, gentlemen. There’s a stable where he can rest, and a manger with hay and a bucket.”

  Holmes signaled me to silence and we followed the man to the stable, where he took care of the pony with swift efficiency. Once that was done, he turned to us.

  “You came hunting me? Who are you?”

  “The agents of a man who knew your father,” Holmes said equably.

  Charles Thompson, if this was he, stared at us in silence before he groaned. “I do not know what you want of me,” he said at last. “I have no interest in anything this man might say, whether he once was a friend of my father’s or not, whether it is to my advantage or not. Is that clear enough for you?”

  “You are Charles Thompson, the son of Jeff Th
ompson?”

  “I am—to my sorrow.”

  “Then you know what your father was?”

  The young man’s eyes glittered with some strong emotion. “I know very well. I had chapter and verse from a friend of his, wanting me to join some of his dirty games just after mother died. Badger-baiting, dog fighting, and gambling on the beasts as they died. I told him I wasn’t my dad, let him look for my twin if he wanted someone for that.” The pony pushed its nose at him and he scratched it absent-mindedly. “He wouldn’t leave me alone, so I persuaded him it would be the better for him if he did so—and he understood well enough, once I was done.”

  I guessed from the way his hands clenched how he had accomplished that and was unwillingly impressed. He looked at Holmes.

  “Aye, I know well what my father was. I’m not my father, and if you’re more like that one and wanting me to join you in such things…” Holmes shook his head. “What then?”

  “There was a man your father knew, a man named Collin Melrose. What do you know of him?”

  “My mother said he had my father killed, took away her reputation, and ruined us.”

  Holmes eyed him closely. “Did you believe her?”

  The young man’s cheekbones reddened under the tan. “I did while I was a lad, but even a kid hears things, and we did, me and Tommy. People think the kids aren’t listening or won’t understand. At first you don’t, but when you get older you remember what they said, and now you know what they meant. ’Sides, if we were so ruined, how come we had a nice house, how was it me and Tommy went to school till we were sixteen, and mum didn’t have to work. Dad… he wasn’t a good man, he hurt people to make money. Tommy didn’t care. He said when he was old enough he’d make money, too, and people could look out for themselves.

  “I’m more one for a quiet life, I guess. Stafford Farm suits me. We’re a mixed farm, with half a dozen steers running on for beef. Four milk cows give enough so we sell some milk, as well as make our own cheese. We have a few pigs, a good orchard, a vegetable garden, and berries, too. We’ve a small flock of sheep, and in the slower times I can work days here and there for a couple of the bigger farms.”

  Holmes nodded. “And Mrs. Stafford? What does she know about your father?”

  Charles Thompson grinned. “You’ll catch cold at that, Mister. She knows everything. I asked her to marry me and the first banns were called last week. Wouldn’t do that without she knew all I could tell. That’s why she was suspicious of you. But as I say, I’m not my dad, never was, never will be.” He nodded at the placid pony, standing hipshot in the stable. “Pony’ll be rested by now. Best you go and look elsewhere for whoever it is you want, because it isn’t me.”

  “Your brother, perhaps,” Holmes said softly.

  “Maybe. Don’t know, don’t care. I haven’t seen him save t’other day when he dropped by for half an hour and went again. Bar that I’ve not seen him since we split what our mother left. He went one way, I went the other. We’re chalk and cheese, me and Tommy. We were close enough as kids, but not anymore, not since him and Livvy D…” He stopped. “Water under the bridge. You get along now and leave us alone. There’s nothing here for you.”

  And with that he turned on his heel and walked away. I readied the pony and cart again and when we drove away, Charles Thompson was standing by the house, the woman in the curve of his arm. As we drove past she turned to look at us, her face both anxious and triumphant.

  “Holmes, do you think he spoke the truth?”

  “Yes.” The word was uncompromising.

  “And you believe he told her everything, as he claimed?”

  “I do. Her attitude suggested it from the first. She denied he lived ‘in her house.’ I’d say that was true. He won’t move in until they’re married, but she knew who we wanted. She was afraid for him. And while he may not be involved and knows nothing, it is possible she is not so ignorant.”

  I leaped to a conclusion. “Tommy! He came here looking for his brother. You think he may have spoken to the woman without Charles’s knowledge?”

  “It’s possible. If I’m right, she’ll come after us.” We’d rounded two bends, and now Holmes drew the pony onto the side of the road. We sat, waiting. Minutes passed, and I stirred.

  “She isn’t coming, Holmes.”

  There was a rustling in the long hedge and a figure appeared, thrusting through a thinner patch. “Wrong about that, Mister. Your friend was right, although how he knew, I dunno.” She stared at us. “Charlie’s a good man, steady an’ kind. He’s even agreed to change his name, so if we have kids there’ll be Staffords at Stafford Farm, as there should be. But his brother…. Different kettle of fish, that one. Rotten as an egg t’ hen’s sat on for a month and not hatched. Came here asking for Charlie. They talked a bit an’ this brother went off snarling. I caught him up, like I done you, and I paid him to go away. He went. Reckon he knew he’d get nothing out of Charlie, so he settled for what I’d give him. Not again, how-some-ever, I made that plain to him, and I will say he took it not so bad. Said he’d send a wedding present, and when it came I could tell Charlie goodbye from him an’ good luck.”

  “Did he give you any indication of where he was staying, or where he’d go when he left?” Holmes asked gently.

  “He was staying at the inn, I know that. Old Bob let it out when I was talking to him day after. But what he said to me, I’ve told you. That’s all I know. Now you go after him or not, but don’t you come bothering me ’n’ Charlie again.” She pushed her way back through the hedge and we heard her footsteps fade.

  Holmes set the pony in motion again.

  “Bob?” I said thoughtfully to the sweet country air. “Tommy may have spoken to him, and Tommy is a city man.”

  Holmes took my point at once. “And in the city, most think the country empty, that country people know nothing, and that gossip is something that occurs only in cities.”

  I chuckled. “Exactly. I’d lay a shilling that if Tommy told Bob anything at all, it’s remembered, and with the right inducement he’ll tell us.” And he did.

  * * * *

  We found Bob Shelden hoeing a row of cabbages in the inn’s vegetable garden. He was quite happy to stop and talk to us. He nodded when we mentioned Tommy Thompson.

  “Yessir, a polite gentleman. Talked to me a couple of times. Wanted to know all about Stafford Farm, he did. Well, sirs, I lived here, man and boy, all my life, ain’t many as could tell him more. Give me a shilling when I was done, did Mr. Thompson.”

  I recognized the hint and passed over a shilling, too. He would be, I thought, in his seventies. His back was a little bowed, but the brown eyes were sharp, and his wiry figure moved spryly enough as he swung the hoe. I know country-folk of his class, they often delight in allowing those from the city to assume they are all fools, dumb yokels who know nothing, understand nothing, and hear nothing. However, they stand by their own, and I thought I knew how to open up Bob Shelden. I made it clear I was desirous to tell him something but was hesitating. Holmes left it to me to begin the questioning.

  Old Bob’s gaze settled on me, the look in his eyes turning speculative. I opened my mouth as if to speak, paused, then appeared to make up my mind. “Do you know Mary Stafford?”

  “Known her all her life,” was the prompt reply. “Good lass. Good family.”

  “Then you wouldn’t wish her harm?”

  “I would not.” His words were decisive, and now it was his turn to hesitate. “Lookee now, sir, if there’s someone as is against her, let you tell me.”

  “What do you know of her man?” Holmes asked.

  “Good lad. Didn’t know nothing about farming when he come here, but he took to it like a duck to water. Good to Mary he is, and he knows a man don’t get nothing without he works for it. Thought it were Charlie when that Mr. Thompson come to the inn. He asked me if’n I knew a man as looked just like him, and if so I did, where’d he find that man. I told him Stafford Farm. Did I do wrong, sirs?” />
  “No,” I said, “but Thompson is Charlie’s brother. He’s not a good man and he wants to draw his brother into doing wrong, too. We’ve talked to Mary and Charlie. We would like to see Thompson kept from causing them trouble and sorrow. If we know where he has gone, we may be able to do that.”

  “Ah.” Bob Shelden smiled cunningly, a wide, half-toothless grin. “Happen I can help wi’ that. He started talking to me, like I say. Asking about this man who looked like him, trying to be casual like he were just passing the time ’a day. I let him talk, an’ it come out as he knows a place I does. Village over west a’ways. An’ I tell you true, too, he does know it. Mentioned the inn there that’s kept by kin o’ mine, and by that I knowed he spoke truth. So it could be, sirs, that’s where he might be found.”

  Holmes nodded. “Thank you. If Thompson comes sniffing around again, let Charlie know. You’re right, he’s a good man and not like his brother.”

  “This Thompson, is he one of them Lunnon wrong ’uns as I’ve heard tell about?” Holmes and I both nodded and Bob nodded back. “Ah, don’t ’ee worry then. Happen he comes back I’ll let Charlie know, and if’n Thompson makes trouble, well, some of us, we can make more.” His grin widened. “City folk!” He spat juicily.

  I nodded, accepting that a man on his own ground could certainly deal with some foreigner. I passed a florin over and, accepting his gesture of thanks, we bade old Bob goodbye and left him to the inn’s cabbages.

  Once we were out of earshot Holmes spoke thoughtfully. “It’s becoming late and there’ll be no train now. Let us stay the night and catch a train in the morning.”

  “I was reading the timetable,” I said. “There’s a train at seven that stops at the village old Bob mentioned. Mr. Tommy doesn’t know us, so it’ll do no harm if he does see us about there.”