The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax: Part Two

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Welcome to Sherlock Holmes Short Stories.

I'm Hugh Bonneville, and from the Noiser Podcast Network, this is The Disappearance of Lady Carfax, Part 2.

Last time, Holmes was asked to investigate the disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax by her former governess, Miss Dobney.

Lady Frances was a wealthy spinster who spent her time traveling extensively throughout Europe.

Though she was eccentric, she was a creature of habit and wrote to her former governess every two weeks precisely.

However, Miss Dobney hadn't heard from Lady Frances in over five weeks and grew worried that something terrible had happened to her.

A fear that was further aroused by the fact that Lady Frances was distrustful of banks and always travelled with her extensive collection of priceless Spanish jewelry.

Unable to leave London, Holmes sent Watson to the Swiss Alps to investigate.

Arriving in Lausanne, Watson discovered that Lady Frances had fled after a frightening encounter with a mysterious bearded Englishman.

She then headed to Baden, where she met and fell under the influence of one Dr.

Schlesinger and his wife.

Later, the Schlesingers and Lady Frances headed back to London together.

A cheque for £50 drawn by Lady Frances led Watson to Montpellier, where he tracked down her former maid, Marie.

The maid revealed that her mistress lived in constant fear of the bearded stranger.

Then, as if summoned by their conversation, the man in question appeared outside.

Watson went to confront him, and the two men almost came to blows, but were broken up by a French workman, who proved to be Holmes in disguise.

It turned out that the bearded man, whose name is Philip Greene, was working with Holmes.

Greene revealed that he and Lady Frances had been in love years ago, but she had rejected him due to his wild past.

Now reformed and wealthy from his time in South Africa, he had been trying to win her back.

Green was concerned by Lady Frances's new relationship with Dr.

Schlesinger, and it turned out his worry was justified.

From a description of his left ear, Holmes has just deduced that the good doctor is, in fact, a highly dangerous criminal.

Now he is telling Watson all about Dr.

Schlesinger's true nature.

The Reverend Dr.

Schlesinger, missionary from South America, is none other than Holy Peters,

one of the most unscrupulous rascals that Australia has ever evolved.

And for a young country, it has turned out some very finished types.

His particular specialty is the beguiling of lonely ladies by playing upon their religious feelings, and his so-called wife, an English woman named Fraser, is a worthy helpmate.

The nature of his tactics suggested his identity to me, and this physical peculiarity, he was badly bitten in a saloon fight at Adelaide in 89, confirmed my suspicion.

This poor lady is in the hands of a most infernal couple who will stick at nothing, Watson.

That she is already dead is a very likely supposition.

If not, she is undoubtedly in some sort of confinement and unable to write to Miss Dobney or her other friends.

It is always possible that she never reached London or that she has passed through it, but the former is improbable as, with their system of registration, it is not easy for foreigners to play tricks with the Continental Police.

And the latter is also unlikely, as these rogues could not hope to find any other place where it would be as easy to keep a person under restraint.

All my instincts tell me that she is in London.

But as we have at present no possible means of telling where, we can only take the obvious steps, eat our dinner, and possess our souls in patience.

Later in the evening, I will stroll down and have a word with friend Lestrade at Scotland Yard.

But neither the official police nor Holmes's own small but very efficient organization sufficed to clear away the mystery.

Amid the crowded millions of London, the three persons we sought were as completely obliterated as if they had never lived.

Advertisements were tried and failed.

Clues were followed and led to nothing.

Every criminal resort which Schlesinger might frequent was drawn in vain.

His old associates were watched, but they kept clear of him.

And then suddenly, after a week of helpless suspense, there came a flash of light.

A silver and brilliant pendant of old Spanish design had been pawned at Bovington's in Westminster Road.

The pawner was a large, clean-shaven man of clerical appearance.

His name and address were demonstrably false.

The ear had escaped notice, but the description was surely that of Schlesinger.

Three times had our bearded friend from the Langham called for news, the third time within an hour of this fresh development.

His clothes were getting looser on his great body.

He seemed to be wilting away in his anxiety.

If you would only give me something to do, was his constant wail.

At last Holmes could oblige him.

He has begun to pawn the jewels.

We should get him now.

But does this mean that any harm has befallen the Lady Frances?

Holmes shook his head very gravely.

Supposing that they have held her prisoner up to now, it is clear that they cannot let her loose without their own destruction.

We must prepare for the worst.

What can I do?

These people do not know you by sight?

No.

It is possible that he will go to some other pawnbroker in the future.

In that case, we must begin again.

On the other hand, he has had a fair price and no questions asked.

So, if he is in need of ready money, he will probably come back to Bovington's.

I will give you a note to them, and they will let you wait in the shop.

If the fellow comes, you will follow him home, but no indiscretion, and above all, no violence.

I put you on your honour that you will take no step without my knowledge and consent.

For two days, the Honourable Philip Greene, he was, I may mention, the son of the famous Admiral of that name who commanded the Sea of Azov fleet in the Crimean War, brought us no news.

On the evening of the third, he rushed into our sitting-room pale, trembling, with every muscle of his powerful frame quivering with excitement.

We have him.

We have him, he cried.

He was incoherent in his agitation.

Holmes soothed him with a few words and thrust him into an armchair.

Come now, give us the order of events, said he.

She came only an hour ago.

It was the wife, this time, but the pendant she brought was the fellow of the other.

She is a tall, pale woman with ferret eyes.

That is the lady, said Holmes.

She left the office and I followed her.

She walked up the Kennington Road and I kept behind her.

Presently she went into a shop.

Mr.

Holmes, it was an undertaker's.

My companion started.

Well,

he asked in that vibrant voice which told of the fiery soul behind the cold grey face.

She was talking to the woman behind the counter.

I entered as well.

It is late, I heard her say, or words to that effect.

The woman was excusing herself.

It should be there before now, she answered.

It took longer, being out of the ordinary.

They both stopped and looked at me, so I asked some questions and then left the shop.

You did excellently well.

What happened next?

The woman came out, but I had hid myself in a doorway.

Her suspicions had been aroused, I think, for she looked round her.

Then she called a cab and got in.

I was lucky enough to get another, and so to follow her.

She got down at last at number 36 Pulteney Square, Brixton.

I drove past, left my cab at the corner of the square, and watched the house.

Did you see anyone?

The windows were all in darkness, save one on the lower floor.

The blind was down, and I could not see in.

I was standing there, wondering what I should do next, when a covered van drove up with two men in it.

They descended, took something out of the van, and carried it up the steps to the hall door.

Mr.

Holmes,

it was a coffin.

Ah!

For an instant, I was on the point of rushing in.

The door had been opened to admit the men and their burden.

It was the woman who had opened it.

But as I stood there, she caught a a glimpse of me, and I think that she recognized me.

I saw her start, and she hastily closed the door.

I remembered my promise to you, and here I am.

You have done excellent work, said Holmes, scribbling a few words upon a half-sheet of paper.

We can do nothing legal without a warrant, and you can serve the cause best by taking this note down to the authorities and getting one.

There may be some difficulty, but I should think that the sale of the jewelry should be sufficient.

Lestrade will see to all details.

But they may murder her in the meanwhile.

What could the coffin mean, and for whom could it be but for her?

We will do all that can be done, Mr Greene.

Not a moment will be lost.

Leave it in our hands.

Now, Watson, he added, as our client hurried away, he will set the regular forces on the move.

We are, as usual, the irregulars, and we must take our own line of action.

The situation strikes me as so desperate that the most extreme measures are justified.

Not a moment is to be lost in getting to Polkeny Square.

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Let us try to reconstruct the situation, said he, as we drove swiftly past the houses of parliament and over Westminster Bridge.

These villains have coaxed this unhappy lady to london after first alienating her from her faithful maid if she has written any letters they have been intercepted through some confederate they have engaged a furnished house once inside it they have made her a prisoner and they have become possessed of the valuable jewelry which has been their object from the first already they have begun to sell part of it which seems safe enough to them since they have no reason to think that anyone is interested in the lady's fate when she is released, she will, of course, denounce them.

Therefore, she must not be released.

But they cannot keep her under lock and key forever, so murder is their only solution.

That seems very clear.

Now we will take another line of reasoning.

When you follow two separate chains of thought, Watson, you will find some point of intersection which should approximate to the truth.

We will start now, not from the lady, but from the coffin, and argue backward.

That incident proves, I fear, beyond all doubt that the lady is dead.

It points also to an orthodox burial with proper accompaniment of medical certificate and official sanction.

Had the lady been obviously murdered, they would have buried her in a hole in the back garden.

But here, all is open and regular.

What does this mean?

Surely that they have done her to death in some way which has deceived the doctor and simulated a natural end.

Poisoning, perhaps.

And yet how strange that they should ever let a doctor approach her unless he were a Confederate, which is hardly a credible proposition.

Could they have forged a medical certificate?

Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous.

No, I hardly see them doing that.

Pull up, Cabby.

This is evidently the Undertaker's, for we have just passed the pawnbrokers.

Would you go in, Watson?

Your appearance inspires confidence.

Ask what hour the Pulteney Square funeral takes place to-morrow.

The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation that it was to be at eight o'clock in the morning.

You see, Watson, no mystery, everything above board.

In some way, the legal forms have undoubtedly been complied with, and they think that they have little to fear.

Well, there's nothing for it now but a direct frontal attack.

Are you armed?

My stick?

Well, well, we shall be strong enough.

Thrice is he armed who hath his quarrel just.

We simply can't afford to wait for the police or to keep within the four corners of the law.

You can drive off, Cabby.

Now, Watson, we'll just take our luck together, as we have occasionally in the past.

He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house in the center of Pulteney Square.

It was opened immediately, and the figure of a tall woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall.

Well, what do you want?

She asked sharply, peering at us through the darkness.

I want to speak to Dr.

Schlesinger, said Holmes.

There is no such person here, she answered, and tried to close the door, but Holmes had jammed it with his foot.

Well, I want to see the man who lives here, whatever he may call himself, said Holmes firmly.

She hesitated, then she threw open the door.

Well, come in, said she.

My husband is not afraid to face any man in the world.

She closed the door behind us and showed us into a sitting-room on the right side of the hall, turning up the gas as she left us.

Mr.

Peters will be with you in an instant, she said.

Her words were literally true, for we had hardly time to look around the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which we found ourselves, before the door opened and a big, clean-shaven, bald-headed man stepped lightly into the room.

He had a large, red face with pendulous cheeks, and a general air of superficial benevolence, which was marred by a cruel, vicious mouth.

There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen, he said in an unctuous, make everything easy voice.

I fancy that you have been misdirected.

Possibly, if you tried farther down the street, that will do.

We have no time to waste, said my companion firmly.

You are Henry Peters of Adelaide, late the Reverend Dr.

Schlesinger of Baden and South America.

I am as sure of that as that my own name is Sherlock Holmes.

Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared hard at his formidable pursuer.

I guess your name does not frighten me, Mr.

Holmes, said he coolly.

When a man's conscience is easy, you can't rattle him.

What is your business in my house?

I want to know what you have done with the Lady Frances Carfax, whom you brought away with you from Barton.

I'd be very glad if you could tell me where that lady may be, Peters answered coolly.

I've a bill against her for nearly a hundred pounds, and nothing to show for it but a couple of trumpery pendants that the dealer would hardly look at.

She attached herself to misses Peters and me at Barton.

It is a fact that I was using another name at the time, and she stuck on to us until we came to London.

I paid her bill and her ticket.

Once in london she gave us the slip and as i say left these out-of-date jewels to pay her bills you find her mr holmes and i'm your debtor i mean to find her said sherlock holmes i'm going through this house till i do find her

where is your warrant holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket

This will have to serve till a better one comes.

Why, you're a common burglar.

So you might describe me, said Holmes cheerfully.

My companion is also a dangerous ruffian, and together we are going through your house.

Our opponent opened the door.

Fetch a policeman, Annie, said he.

There was a whisk of feminine skirts down the passage, and the hall door was opened and shut.

Our time is limited, Watson, said Holmes.

If you try to stop us, Peters, you will most certainly get hurt.

Where is that coffin which was brought into your house?

What do you want with the coffin?

It is in use.

There is a body in it.

I must see the body.

Never with my consent.

Then without it.

With a quick movement, Holmes pushed the fellow to one side and passed into the hall.

A door half-open stood immediately before us.

We entered.

It was the dining room.

On the table, under a half-lit chandelier, a coffin was lying.

Holmes turned up the the gas and raised the lid.

Deep down in the recesses of the coffin lay an emaciated figure.

The glare from the lights above beat down upon an aged and withered face.

By no possible process of cruelty, starvation, or disease could this worn-out wreck be the still beautiful Lady Frances.

Holmes' face showed his amazement and also his relief.

Thank God he muttered.

It is some one else.

Ah You've blundered badly for once, mister Sherlock Holmes, said Peters, who had followed us into the room.

Who is the dead woman?

Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my wife's, Rose Spender, by name, whom we found in the Brixton Workhouse Infirmary.

We brought her round here, called in doctor Hawsome of Thirteen Firbank Villas, mind you take the address, Mr.

Holmes, and had her carefully tended as Christian folk should.

On the third day, she died.

Certificate says senile decay, but that's only the doctor's opinion, and of course you know better.

We ordered her funeral to be carried out by Stimpson and Company of the Kennington Road, who will bury her at eight o'clock tomorrow morning.

Can you pick any hole in that, Mr.

Holmes?

You've made a silly blunder, and you may as well own up to it.

I'd give something for a photograph of your gaping, staring face when you pulled aside that lid, expecting to see the Lady Frances Carfax, and only found a poor old woman of ninety.

Holmes's expression was as impassive as ever under the jeers of his antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acute annoyance.

I am going through your house, said he.

Are you, though?

cried Peters, as a woman's voice and heavy steps sounded in the passage.

We'll soon see about that.

This way, officers, if you please.

These men have forced their way into my house, and I cannot get rid of them.

Help me to put them out.

A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway.

Holmes drew his card from his case.

This is my name and address.

This is my friend, Dr.

Watson.

Bless you, sir, we know you very well, said the sergeant.

But you can't stay here without a warrant.

Of course not.

I quite understand that.

Arrest him, cried Peters.

We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman if he is wanted, said the sergeant majestically.

But you'll have to go, Mr.

Holmes.

Yes, Watson, we shall have to go.

A minute later we were in the street once more.

Holmes was as cool as ever, but I was hot with anger and humiliation.

The sergeant had followed us.

Sorry, Mr.

Holmes, but that's the law.

Exactly, Sergeant.

You could not do otherwise.

I expect there was good reason for your presence there.

If there is anything I can do.

It's a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think she is in that house.

I expect a warrant presently.

Then I'll keep my eye on the parties, Mr.

Holmes.

If anything comes along, I will surely let you know.

It was only nine o'clock, and we were off full cry upon the trail at once.

First, we drove to Brixton Workhouse Infirmary, where we found that it was indeed the truth that a charitable couple had called some days before, that they had claimed an imbecile old woman as a former servant, and that they had obtained permission to take her away with him.

No surprise was expressed at the news that she had since died.

The doctor was our next goal.

He had been called in, had found the woman dying of pure senility, had actually seen her away, and had signed the certificate in due form.

I assure you that everything was perfectly normal and there was no room for foul play in the matter, said he.

Nothing in the house had struck him as suspicious, save that for people of their class it was remarkable that they should have no servant.

So far and no further, went the doctor.

Finally, we found our way to Scotland Yard.

There had been difficulties of procedure in regard to the warrant.

Some delay was inevitable.

The magistrate's signature might not be obtained until the next morning.

If Holmes would call about nine, he could go down with Lestrade and see it acted upon.

So ended the day, save that near midnight, our friend, the sergeant, called to say that he had seen flickering lights here and there in the windows of the great dark house, but that no one had left it and none had entered.

We could but pray for patience and wait for the morrow.

Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation and too restless for sleep.

I left him smoking hard, with his heavy dark brows knotted together and his long nervous fingers tapping upon the arms of his chair as he turned over in his mind every possible solution of the mystery.

Several times in the course of the night I heard him prowling about the house.

Finally, just after I had been called in the morning, he rushed into my room.

He was in his dressing-gown, but his pale, hollow-eyed face told me that his night had been a sleepless one.

What time was the funeral?

Eight, was it not?

he asked eagerly.

Well, it is seven-twenty now.

Good heavens, Watson, what has become of any brains that God has given me?

Quick, man, quick!

It's life or death.

A hundred chances on death to one on life.

I'll never forgive myself, never, if we are too late.

Five minutes had not passed before we were flying in a hansom down Baker Street.

But even so, it was twenty-five to eight as we passed Big Ben, and eight struck as we tore down the Brixton Road.

But others were late as well as we.

Ten minutes after the hour the hearse was still standing at the door of the house, and even as our foaming horse came to a halt, the coffin, supported by three men, appeared on the threshold.

Holmes darted forward and barred their way.

Take it back, he cried, laying his hand on the breast of the foremost.

Take it back this instant.

What the devil do you mean?

Once again, I ask you, where is your warrant?

shouted the furious Peters, his big red face glaring over the farther end of the coffin.

The warrant is on its way.

The coffin shall remain in the house until it comes.

The authority in Holmes's voice had its effect upon the bearers.

Peters had suddenly vanished into the house, and they obeyed these new orders.

Quick, Watson, quick.

Here is a screwdriver, he shouted as the coffin was replaced upon the table.

Here's one for you, my man.

A sovereign if the lid comes off in a minute.

Ask no questions.

Work away.

That's good.

Another.

And another.

Now pull all together.

It's giving.

It's giving.

Ah, that does it at last.

With a united effort, we tore off the coffin lid.

As we did so, there came from the inside a stupefying and overpowering smell of chloroform.

A body lay within, its head all wreathed in cotton wool, which had been soaked in the narcotic.

Holmes plucked it off and disclosed the statuesque face of a handsome and spiritual woman of middle age.

In an instant, he had passed his arm round the figure and raised her to a sitting position.

Is she gone, Watson?

Is there a spark left?

Surely we are not too late.

For half an hour it seemed that we were.

What with actual suffocation and what with the poisonous fumes of the chloroform, the Lady Frances seemed to have passed the last point of recall.

And then, at last, with artificial respiration, with injected ether, and with every device that science could suggest, some flutter of life, some quiver of the eyelid, some dimming of a mirror, spoke of the slowly returning life.

A cab had driven up, and Holmes, parting the blind, looked out at it.

Here is Lestrade with his warrant, said he.

He will find find that his birds have flown.

And here, he added as a heavy step hurried along the passage, is someone who has a better right to nurse this lady than we have.

Good morning, Mr.

Green.

I think that the sooner we can move the Lady Frances, the better.

Meanwhile, the funeral may proceed, and the poor old woman who still lies in that coffin may go to her last resting place alone.

Should you care to add the case to your annals, my dear Watson, said Holmes that evening, it can only be as an example of that temporary eclipse to which even the best balanced mind may be exposed.

Such slips are common to all mortals, and the greatest is he who can recognize and repair them.

To this modified credit I may perhaps make some claim.

My night was haunted by the thought that somewhere a clue, a strange sentence, a curious observation, had come under my notice and had been too easily dismissed.

Then, suddenly, in the grey of the morning, the words came back to me.

It was the remark of the undertaker's wife, as reported by Philip Greene.

She had said, it should be there before now.

It took longer being out of the ordinary.

It was the coffin of which she spoke.

It had had been out of the ordinary.

That could only mean that it had been made to some special measurement, but why?

Why?

Then, in an instant, I remembered the deep sides and the little wasted figure at the bottom.

Why so large a coffin for so small a body?

To leave room for another body.

Both would be buried under the one certificate.

It had all been so clear, if only my own sight had not been dimmed.

At eight, the lady Frances would be buried.

Our one chance was to stop the coffin before it left the house.

It was a desperate chance that we might find her alive, but it was a chance, as the result showed.

These people had never, to my knowledge, done a murder.

They might shrink from actual violence at the last.

They could bury her with no sign of how she met her end, and even if she were exhumed, there was a chance for them.

I

A clever device, Watson.

It is new to me in the annals of crime.

If our ex-missionary friends escape the clutches of Lestrade, I shall expect to hear of some brilliant incidents in their future career.

Next time on Sherlock Holmes' short stories, the great detective matches wits with a deadly adversary in The Adventure of the Illustrious Client.

When Baron Gruner, an Austrian aristocrat with a talent for seduction, sets his sights on an impressionable young woman, Holmes is hired to prevent the marriage.

But Gruner is no ordinary scoundrel.

He's already escaped justice for murdering his wife, and he keeps a leather-bound diary of all the women's lives he's destroyed.

As Holmes investigates Gruner, he soon finds himself playing a dangerous game.

for the Baron has his own way of dealing with nosy detectives, and those who stand in his way have a curious habit of meeting violent ends.

That's next time.

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