If Lady Fairclough had been startled by Holmes’s recognizing her without introduction, she was clearly amazed beyond my meager powers of description by this statement. She raised a hand to her cheek, which showed a smoothness of complexion and grace of curve in the flattering glow of the dancing flames. “Mr. Holmes,” she exclaimed, “how did you know all that?”
“It was nothing, Lady Fairclough, one need merely keep one’s senses on the alert and one’s mind active.” A glance that Holmes darted in my direction was not welcome, but I felt constrained from protesting in the presence of a guest and potential client.
“So you say, Mr. Holmes, but I have read of your exploits and in many cases they seem little short of supernatural,” Lady Fairclough replied.
“Not in the least. Let us consider the present case. Your valise bears the paper label of the Blue Star Line. The Murania and the Lemuria are the premiere ocean liners of the Blue Star Line, alternating upon the easterly and westerly transatlantic sea-lanes. Even a fleeting glance at the daily shipping news indicates that the Murania was due in Liverpool early this morning. If the ship made port at even so late an hour as ten o’clock, in view of the fact that the rail journey from Liverpool to London requires a mere two hours, you should have reached our city by noon. Another hour at most from the rail terminus to Baker Street would have brought you to our door by one o’clock this afternoon. And yet,” concluded Holmes, glancing at the ormolu clock that rested upon our mantel, “you arrive at the surprising hour of ten o’clock post meridian.”
“But, Holmes,” I interjected, “Lady Fairclough may have had other errands to perform before coming to us.”
“No, Watson, no. I fear that you have failed to draw the proper inference from that which you have surely observed. You did note, did you not, that Lady Fairclough has brought her carpetbag with her?”
I pled guilty to the charge.
“Surely, had she not been acting in great haste, Lady Fairclough would have gone to her hotel, refreshed herself, and left her luggage in her quarters there before traveling to Baker Street. The fact that she has but one piece of luggage with her gives further testimony to the urgency with which she departed her home in Canada. Now, Watson, what could have caused Lady Fairclough to commence her trip in such haste?”
I shook my head. “I confess that I am at a loss.”
“It was but eight days ago that the Daily Mail carried a dispatch marked Marthyr Tydhl, a town situated on the border of England and Wales, concerning the mysterious disappearance of Mr. Philip Llewellyn. There would have been time for word to reach Lady Fairclough in Pontefract by transatlantic cable. Fearing that delay in traveling to the port and boarding the Murania would cause intolerable delay, Lady Fairclough had her maid pack the fewest possible necessities in her carpetbag. She then made her way to Halifax, whence the Murania departed, and upon reaching Liverpool this morning would have made her way at once to London. Yet she arrived some nine hours later than she might have been expected to do. Since our rail service remains uninterrupted in even the most severe of climatic conditions, it can only have been the customs service, equally notorious for their punctilio and their dilatory conduct, which could be responsible.”
Turning once more to Lady Fairclough, Holmes said, “In behalf of Her Majesty’s Customs Service, Lady Fairclough, I tender my apologies.”
There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Hudson appeared, bearing a tray with hot tea and cold sandwiches. This she placed upon the table, then took her leave.
Lady Fairclough looked at the repast and said, “Oh, I simply could not.”
“Nonsense,” Holmes insisted. “You have completed an arduous journey and face a dangerous undertaking. You must keep up your strength.” He rose and added brandy to Lady Fairclough’s tea, then stood commandingly over her while she consumed the beverage and two sandwiches.
“I suppose I was hungry after all,” she admitted at last. I was pleased to see some color returning to her cheeks. I had been seriously concerned about her well-being.
“Now, Lady Fairclough,” said Holmes, “it might be well for you to go to your hotel and restore your strength with a good night’s slumber. You do have a reservation, I trust.”
“Oh, of course, at Claridge’s. A suite was ordered for me through the courtesy of the Blue Star Line, but I could not rest now, Mr. Holmes. I am far too distraught to sleep until I have explained my need to you, and received your assurance that you and Dr. Watson will take my case. I have plenty of money, if that is a concern.”
Holmes indicated that financial details could wait, but I was pleased to be included in our guest’s expression of need. So often I find myself taken for granted, while in fact I am Holmes’s trusted associate, as he has himself acknowledged on many occasions.
“Very well.” Holmes nodded, seating himself opposite Lady Fairclough. “Please tell me your story in your own words, being as precise with details as possible.”
Lady Fairclough drained her cup and waited while Holmes filled it once again with brandy and a spot of Darjeeling. She downed another substantial draft, then launched upon her narrative.
“As you know, Mr. Holmes—and Dr. Watson—I was born in England of old stock. Despite our ancient Welsh connections and family name, we have been English for a thousand years. I was the elder of two children, the younger being my brother, Philip. As a daughter, I saw little future for myself in the home islands, and accepted the proposal of marriage tendered by my husband, Lord Fairclough, whose Canadian holdings are substantial and who indicated to me a desire to emigrate to Canada and build a new life there, which we would share.”
I had taken out my notebook and fountain pen and begun jotting notes.
“At about this time my parents were both killed in a horrendous accident, the collision of two trains in the Swiss Alps while vacationing abroad. Feeling that an elaborate wedding would be disrespectful of the deceased, Lord Fairclough and I were quietly married and took our leave of England. We lived happily in Pontefract, Canada, until my husband disappeared.”
“Indeed,” Holmes interjected, “I had read of Lord Fairclough’s disappearance. I note that you refer to him as your husband rather than your late husband still, nor do I see any mourning band upon your garment. Is it your belief that your husband lives still?”
Lady Fairclough lowered her eyes for a moment as a flush rose to her cheeks. “Although ours was somewhat a marriage of convenience, I find that I have come to love my husband most dearly. There was no discord between us, if you are concerned over such, Mr. Holmes.”
“Not in the least, Lady Fairclough.”
“Thank you.” She sipped from her teacup. Holmes peered at it, then refreshed its contents once again. “Thank you,” Lady Fairclough repeated. “My husband had been corresponding with his brother-in-law, my brother, and later, after my brother’s marriage, with my brother’s wife, for some time before he disappeared. I saw the envelopes as they came and went, but I was never permitted to so much as lay eyes on their contents. After reading each newly delivered letter, my husband would burn it and crush the ashes beyond recovery. After receiving one very lengthy letter—I could tell it was lengthy by the heft of the envelope in which it arrived—my husband summoned carpenters and prepared a sealed room which I was forbidden to enter. Of course I obeyed my husband’s command.”
“A wise policy,” I put in. “One knows the story of Bluebeard.”
“He would lock himself in his private chamber for hours at a time, sometimes days. When he disappeared, in fact, I half expected him to return at any moment.” Lady Fairclough put her hand to her throat. “Please,” she said softly, “I beg your pardon for the impropriety, but I feel suddenly so warm.” I glanced away, and when I looked back at her I observed that the top button of her blouse had been undone.