Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes, The, The (19 page)

This statement was received with a mixture of emotions – astonishment tempered by relief on my part and, on Lestrade’s, ill-disguised suspicion.

‘If that is so, Mr ’Olmes,’ he replied, ‘then tell us ’oo the murderer is and put us out of our misery.’

‘There was no murder,’ he declared, a response which caused as much sensation as his opening remark.

‘No murder!’ Lestrade repeated, half rising from his chair. ‘Then ’oo wrote the letter and ’oose is the body buried in the grave?’

‘All in good time, Lestrade. If only you can contain your curiosity for a moment, I shall come to the letter shortly. As for the body, it was not that of Mlle Carère but of a young woman by the name of Lizzie Ward, who had died of pneumonia eighteen months earlier. To use the epithet that we so-called members of the respectable classes would use to protect ourselves from the less salubrious aspects of life today, she was an “unfortunate”; in short, a prostitute who had collapsed in the Whitechapel area and was taken to the London Hospital,
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where she died. A few days later her body was claimed by a man and a woman who came to the mortuary looking for their missing
daughter. They were a respectable-looking,
middle-aged
couple dressed in black, but what made the mortuary attendant remember them in particular was the fact that, although the woman could speak a little English, they conversed between themselves in French.’

‘The Daudets!’ I exclaimed.

‘Undoubtedly,’ Holmes replied.

Lestrade looked unconvinced.

‘But if they were looking for their daughter, why did they go to the London ’ospital? Didn’t they report ’er missing to the police first?’ he protested.

‘My dear Inspector,’ Holmes said, with the
long-suffering
air of a schoolmaster trying to explain Euclid’s theorem to an innumerate pupil, ‘there was no daughter. What they were looking for was a body which roughly corresponded to Mlle Carère in age, height and so on.’

Understanding lit up Lestrade’s countenance like a slow dawn coming up over a horizon.

‘Oh, I see!’ he exclaimed. ‘So the body we found in the grave wasn’t M’zelle Career’s after all but this other woman’s?’

‘Quite,’ Holmes said crisply. ‘I had my doubts about its true identity the moment I saw it. The absence of shoes first roused my suspicions—’

‘But why were there no shoes?’ I interjected. ‘Judging by the remnants of clothing found in the grave, the dead
woman was wearing a dress, not nightclothes. So was she barefooted when she died?’

‘Almost certainly yes. But that is not the point, Watson. There was a specific reason for making sure there were no shoes in the grave. You both saw the skeleton. Did either of you notice anything particular about the joint to the big toe of the right foot?’ When both of us shook our heads, Holmes continued, ‘It was slightly deformed. A swelling had begun to form, probably a bunion, due no doubt to ill-fitting shoes. This deformity would have been evident in the right shoe, where the leather would have been distorted by the swelling. I think we may safely assume there was no such deformity on Mlle Carère’s right foot and that the Daudets were aware of this.

‘However, they were very anxious to make sure there was evidence to prove that the skeleton was that of Mlle Carère and they went to considerable trouble to supply it. I am referring, of course, to the silver locket which was found with the body. On the face of it, it was a clever ploy. As we already know, the locket was a birthday present to Mlle Carère from her father and she was known to wear it constantly. Therefore, the presence of a locket answering the description of Mlle Carère’s in the grave would, they thought, confirm that the body was that of Mlle Carère. The problem was finding a locket to match the original. Unfortunately, the substitute they placed there only
strengthened my suspicions that the body was not hers.’

‘’Ow was that?’ Lestrade asked.

Reaching into his pocket, Holmes produced the little envelope containing the silver locket, which he carefully tipped out on to a napkin on the table.

‘It is a long story, I am afraid, which I will tell as succinctly as possible. The Daudets were familiar with the locket and knew it contained two likenesses of Mlle Carère’s parents that they would have to substitute with two other photographs.’

‘’Oo of?’ Lestrade demanded.

‘That is not important, Inspector. They could have been of anybody. But there had to be evidence that the locket had contained two photographs. The obvious answer to this dilemma was to so badly damage the substitutes that they could no longer be recognised. So someone, probably M Daudet, defaced them and their settings, but in doing so, he failed to submit the locket itself to the same treatment, as it was imperative that it remained recognisable, and it was this that roused my suspicions. There was something else he also failed to remove, probably because they were so small they were not easily seen. These were the hallmarks on the locket itself. They comprised a leopard’s head, profiles of a lion and the Queen’s head and, most importantly, the capital letter “M” in Gothic style, all of which prove it was made of English silver, assayed in London and
manufactured between the years 1887 and 1888, not in Paris in 1866 when Mlle Carère would have been a young girl.’ Catching sight of Lestrade’s doubtful expression, he continued, pushing the locket and the jeweller’s eyeglass across the table, ‘Would you like to examine them for yourself?’

Lestrade waved them away.

‘I’m not much good with them things,’ he said, indicating the lens, ‘so I’ll take your word for it. But what puzzles me about the ’ole business is why they did it in the first place.’

‘Ah, motive! A good point, Inspector!’ Holmes declared. ‘It was avarice, in my opinion the deadliest of the seven deadly sins and the motive behind a great deal of criminal behaviour. If you remember, Mme Daudet was a cousin to Mme Montpensier, a poor relation and apparently her only living one. No doubt Mme Montpensier had remembered her in her will but, if I have read the situation correctly, the legacy was probably a small one, reflecting the lady’s low social standing. Now, if Mme Montpensier was unfortunate enough to be hanged for her stepdaughter’s murder, her estate – and quite a considerable one, I would imagine – would pass to her next of kin, in short, to Mme Daudet.’

‘I can understand that,’ I interjected. ‘What I am puzzled by is the reason why Mme Daudet called on us the other evening.’

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

‘I am not absolutely sure myself. Women are such irrational creatures, likely to act on the smallest of whims, that I sometimes doubt if they themselves understand their own motives.
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She is a very cunning woman but not very intelligent. I think she was merely testing the water, so to speak, and using the opportunity to sow a few seeds of suspicion against Mme Montpensier. If you remember, Watson, she gave the impression that she supported the theory of Mlle Carère’s disappearance while at the same time throwing doubt on its veracity. I am convinced that, despite her own limited intellect, she was the brains behind the scheme. Daudet was a mere tool in her hands. It was he, of course, who dug the grave and buried Lizzie Ward’s body in it, after conveying it from the London Hospital to Hampstead.’

Lestrade, who had been listening to Holmes’ account with increasing impatience, broke in at this point.

‘That’s all very well, but ’ow did ’e manage it, Mr ’Olmes? You tell me that. I can’t go back to the Yard with some ’alf-baked theory. I need to have everything cut and dried.’

‘Then, Inspector, cut and dried it shall be. I made a
few inquiries of the cabbies in the vicinity of the London Hospital and came across a Sidney Wells, whose memory – assisted, I must admit, with the judicious stimulus of half a crown and a few brown ales – recalled an occasion about eighteen months ago when a couple, who answered the description of the Daudets, summoned his growler
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and asked to be taken to Hampstead, together with their young niece who had fainted. She was wrapped up closely in a blanket, which no doubt the Daudets took with them for this very purpose, and was supported by the man and his wife. As requested, he dropped them off in a street, the name of which he could not recall, and the last sighting he had was the pair of them halfcarrying the young woman down a narrow alleyway that ran alongside a large house. I think we can safely assume it led to the garden behind Mme Montpensier’s residence where a grave already awaited its occupant.’

At this point he stopped and looked keenly from Lestrade to myself.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Are there any more questions?’

Questions? The inspector and I exchanged puzzled glances. What on earth was Holmes referring to?

‘The victim, gentlemen,’ my old friend reminded us gently.

‘The woman, Lizzie what’s-’er-name?’ Lestrade suggested.

‘No, no, no!’ Holmes protested. ‘I am referring to the other young lady, Mlle Carère.’

‘Oh, Holmes!’ I exclaimed, greatly mortified to think that Lestrade and I should have forgotten to consider the fate of that young woman about whom the inquiry had first arisen. ‘What happened to her?’

‘She is safe and well and living in New York with her husband,’ Holmes announced coolly.

‘’Usband?’

‘In New York?’

‘’Ow did you find that out?’

‘Who is he?’

Laughing, Holmes held up a hand to stem the flow.

‘One at a time, gentlemen, if you please!’ he protested. ‘Allow me to answer your questions in a proper sequence. Her husband is Henri Chevalier, an artist, whom she met at the Kensington School of Art where he was teaching drawing. How did I find out his name? Easily enough. From his signature at the bottom of that watercolour which was hanging in her bedroom in the Hampstead house. It was, by the way, a view of New York seen from the banks of the River Hudson, which provided me with the American connection.

‘As for finding out where she was, I sent a cable to my old friend Wilson Hargreaves of the New York Police Bureau
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and he most kindly discovered her
whereabouts and the details of her marriage. It seems she met Chevalier at the art school, where they fell in love. It was a genuine
coup de foudre
, as the French would say, and they were planning to marry in New York after Henri Chevalier’s contract at the school expired. In fact, the letter which Mme Montpensier so high-handedly withheld was from Chevalier, giving Mme Carère details of the sailing times of ships from Liverpool to New York. Under the circumstances, they decided to hurry forward their plans, rather than allow Mlle Carère to stay a moment longer under Mme Montpensier’s roof. So they married in London and booked their passage immediately.

‘By the way, Mlle Carère, or Mme Chevalier as she was by then, did write to Mme Montpensier explaining the circumstances, a letter which I strongly suspect Mme Daudet intercepted and destroyed. I have received a cable from Mme Chevalier stating that, if need be, she will send a statement, witnessed by an attorney, should there be any legal repercussions.’

‘But what would the Daudets be charged with?’ I asked. ‘Not murder?’

‘Indeed no. Lizzie Ward died of natural causes and no actual fraud had been committed—’

To my surprise, it was Lestrade who spoke up with a confidence I had not expected of him.

‘According to civil law, there is an indictable offence, passed, if I remember right, in 1788, to do with
preventing a dead body from ’aving a Christian burial; average sentence about two years.’

‘Well done, Lestrade!’ Holmes exclaimed with genuine admiration and, refilling our glasses, lifted his, adding, as he rose to his feet, ‘I think a toast is called for! To our excellent Inspector Lestrade!’

‘Hear! Hear!’ I exclaimed loudly in agreement.

As for Lestrade himself, I have rarely seen a man beam so broadly or blush so deeply as our old friend and colleague, the inspector, on that evening.

However, in our pleasure at the successful outcome to the inquiry and the good news of Mlle Carère’s survival and subsequent happy marriage, we had forgotten one other person whose fate we had failed to give a second thought to: that of Mme Montpensier. Much to my surprise, it was Holmes who reminded us; Holmes, whom in the past I have criticised for his lack of human warmth towards other people, especially women!

Nevertheless, he went to the trouble of contacting an old acquaintance of his in France through whom he later learned that Mme Montpensier had returned to Paris with Mlle Benoit as her companion where, using her considerable fortune left to her by her late husband, she had leased a large and comfortable apartment in the Champs-Élysées. There the two ladies shared a very pleasant life, going to the theatre and the opera or shopping in the Rue Rivoli.

I wish them both good luck.

As for Holmes, I realise I was too quick in jumping to the wrong conclusion. I should have given him the benefit of the doubt and for that I apologise most heartily.