Murder at Sorrow's Crown Read online

  “How may I help you, Dr. Watson?” she asked, her voice soft and pleasant. She would be quite the prize for Norbert Wynter, should he have survived this ordeal.

  I briefly outlined how Holmes and I had been engaged by Mrs. Wynter, and as I spoke, I saw her brows knit, eyes clouding over. As I completed my report, she nodded.

  “And how do you feel I can be of help?”

  “You see, miss, while no one piece of information will solve this mystery, the more details we collect about Norbert, the better our chances of finding his whereabouts. I would like to hear, for example, about the sort of man he is. After all, mothers describe their children with more bias than impartiality.”

  Miss Burdett laughed knowingly at that and seemed to relax as she settled herself comfortably into her chair. “Norbert was a caring man. He gave most of his pay to his mother and although we had come to an understanding, he could not afford a ring until he was promoted and his salary increased. Being in the navy, he explained, meant I would need plenty of patience.”

  I nodded, feeling great pity for her situation. She spoke of Norbert Wynter in the past tense, so clearly she, unlike Mrs. Wynter, had come to a fatalistic conclusion regarding her fiancé’s fate.

  “He loved the sea, and the navy. He had the spirit of adventure and I daresay it began to rub off on me.”

  “What about his habits?”

  She frowned at the question and considered before responding. The servant by then had come in with a small silver tray laden with the makings of a light tea. Miss Burdett poured, clearly stalling to compose her response. I took the proffered cup and saucer and waited her out.

  “He was always punctual which I daresay came from his training aboard ship. He knew the bells by heart and was always at the dinner table promptly.” Again her laugh filled the room. “He never kept me waiting, more I him. He was maybe a little too casual about his dress when out of uniform but then again, he never had much to spend on his personal attire. He drank no more or less than any other man and was always the model of decorum with me.”

  At that last, her eyes darted from mine so I suspect that may have been a slight exaggeration of the truth but it was also an indiscretion that did not factor into the case. If anything, it implied he was devoted to her and other women were not likely to be found in London or any other port he visited.

  “Money was always a concern for him. He wanted to save for our future and he wanted to provide for his mother but I could tell from his correspondence there were problems.”

  This was news. Money, or the lack of it, was often the precipitating cause of many of the cases Holmes and I had undertaken. But was it a factor here? Wynter had disappeared while serving, not while on shore leave. Still, I knew that a fact, no matter how seemingly inconsequential, should not be discarded so early in an investigation.

  “I knew Norbert was a Navy man through and through,” Caroline Burdett said. “My father is a fisherman and I knew we would be parted for long periods of time. I saw his service on the Dido as a test of our love and one I believe we would have passed had he… had he returned.”

  This pronouncement finally caused a break in her composure but she attempted to cover it with a sip of tea.

  “What do you think happened to your fiancé?” I asked quietly.

  Holding the cup between her pale hands, Miss Burdett shook her head, clearly mystified. She then met my eyes once more and asked, “Do you believe he’s still alive? His mother has heard such ghastly things. I cannot believe he would run, so I am forced to admit, I have given him up for dead.”

  “I cannot make a promise,” I began. “I can say that we are doing our utmost to uncover the truth. Dead, wounded, or whole, hero or coward, we will find out which sort of man he truly is or was. Tell me, you mention his correspondence. Did the two of you write one another letters?”

  “Of course. It took some time between replies given his ship’s movements, but yes, it was regular.”

  “Did you detect anything amiss?”

  “No, nothing except his money worries.”

  “Did you keep his correspondence?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I don’t suppose you would consent to let me or Mr. Holmes read his letters? Perhaps there’s something of significance that has escaped you.”

  Again there was a hesitation and a silence. Finally, she shook her head. “There are… private things in those letters,” she said in a quiet voice.

  “I understand,” and I believed I did. “Well, did he mention anyone, any close friend aboard the Dido? Maybe he could help our investigation.”

  Miss Burdett gave me several names, which I immediately committed to my notebook. I thanked her, and thought to leave, but paused.

  “How are you faring, Miss Burdett? I imagine it has been a terrible strain.”

  “I am well enough, Doctor. As I said, I am accustomed to waiting, although the darkest possibility remains the most likely one and makes the waiting harder.”

  “Perhaps it is a mercy. You are still young.”

  She nodded. “My father keeps saying that. He wants me to think no more of Norbert and find another. But it is… difficult after you have given your heart to another.”

  “Indeed it is,” I said softly. “But you do find a way to move forward and welcome new possibilities.” I sipped once at my tea to be polite and then rose, as did she, taking my hands into her own.

  “Thank you for helping that sweet woman,” Caroline Burdett said. “She will be destroyed if Norbert proves to be a coward.”

  “But you do not believe that to be a possibility?”

  Without hesitation, she shook her head and I saw in her eyes conviction. He had given her no reason to think he would have changed from the man she knew. I, however, knew war could change a man.

  “I sincerely hope that will not prove to be the case,” I assured her.

  I returned to 221B Baker Street to find that Holmes was out once again. There was no message so my time was my own. I spent the afternoon with my notes, a cup of Mrs. Hudson’s tea, and some nagging doubts as to what had become of Lieutenant Norbert Wynter.

  * * *

  I met Captain Colin Westfall that night at a small pub near his posting.

  The man still had the same ruddy complexion I remembered, but he had filled out, adding a good two stone to his already thick frame, as well a bushy moustache that hid his thin lips. He still looked good in the uniform; it suited him. We shook hands, his clammy, and I ordered two pints as we caught up on each other’s doings. He had an easy laugh and found humour in almost everything.

  “Any ill effects from that bite?”

  Westfall shook his head. “I was fit and ready to fight within days. I daresay I had hoped to find its lair, but I never saw a spider again my entire tour.”

  “Mayhap they knew you were looking for them,” I said and we both shared a chuckle at the notion.

  By the second pint, I thought it was time to get down to business. As much as we were enjoying our reminiscences, he knew I had not reached out to him simply to rehash our shared past. Carefully, I steered the conversation to Gladstone and the current political strife. “It was certainly different when Disraeli was in charge,” I offered, dangling the carrot.

  “God rest his soul,” Westfall said, tipping his glass.

  “Indeed,” I agreed. “If I recall, weren’t you the chap who was related to his secretary?”

  “That’s right,” said he. “Lord Rowton is my mother’s second cousin or some such. A distant relation.”

  “Do you still consider this distant relation of more importance than yourself?”

  Westfall gave me a queer look and cocked his head. “What’s all that?” he inquired.

  “When I was treating you, you were going on about this distant relation who was more important than you were and I tried to point out that it was you risking your life, not him.”

  “Can’t say as I recall any such conversation,” he sa
id.

  “Well, it could as easily have been said while under the spider’s influence,” said I. “There’s little surprise in you not recalling things said while ill.”

  He finished his glass and eyed me closely. “And this is why we’re talking? Something to do with my family?”

  “Yes,” I admitted, but he merely laughed.

  “I knew it! No one wants to meet up and talk about Afghanistan. I certainly don’t. I knew you were slowly getting around to your point. I don’t mind even if I have no idea if I really had those thoughts. After all, you pulled me through those days and I survived to come home. So, tell me, what do you want with Cousin Rowton?”

  “I am working with a gentleman on something that requires some discretion and I am hoping you might make an introduction for me,” I explained.

  “Is this about his lordship or his former employer?”

  “The latter, I’m afraid,” I admitted. Westfall’s eyes widened at that.

  “The man is dead and buried; what could you possibly want with him? Trying to commune with his spirit?” He broke into a loud peal of laughter at his own weak joke.

  “I would really rather not explain in public, but trust me, everything we are doing is with the utmost discretion.”

  “Who are you working with?”

  “His name is Holmes. He is a consulting detective.”

  “Never heard of that title, ‘consulting detective’. Is he with the Yard?”

  I shook my head and signalled for a third round of ale. “He is a private citizen, but lends his services to the constabulary, both the City of London Police and the Metropolitan at Scotland Yard. But this is a more private matter as we are trying to locate a missing Royal Navy sailor recently posted to South Africa.”

  That seemed to get his attention. There’s a bond between men in uniform, brothers in arms. We try to never leave a man or his body behind. What we hope is done for us someday we try and do for others.

  “And a missing seaman is connected to Disraeli’s death? That sounds fishy if you ask me.”

  “As well it might be,” I agreed. “But I can assure you, Mr. Holmes and I are working diligently to track down every lead and one of those avenues of investigation leads to Disraeli’s final days, so I am hoping you can vouch for me with Lord Rowton. I would dearly like to hear some details in person.”

  He considered for a few moments, let the barmaid put the fresh glasses before us, and then took a long pull.

  Finally, he put it down and smiled.

  “You’re not going to tell me more, are you?”

  I shook my head.

  “I can respect that, Doctor. Let me send his lordship a note. I have to say that we haven’t seen one another in at least a year, so I can’t make any promises. He made an appearance when I returned from Afghanistan, though, so he is at least aware of who I am.”

  “I will be forever in your debt,” I said, finally taking a taste of the third and final glass of the evening.

  “Nonsense, Doctor. You helped me and now you’re helping another man in uniform. That’s good enough for me. The fact you’re keeping mum—that just shows you’re a man of your word.”

  We shook hands to affirm our agreement and I relaxed, knowing that I must soon join Holmes in the unpleasant task of waiting for things to happen.

  I have never enjoyed waiting.

  * * *

  The following morning we were both rather irritable. Holmes had exhausted his supply of foreign cigars, although the lingering reek would take several weeks of humid summer air to fade. That would mean enduring more of Mrs. Hudson’s complaints about the odour but there was little to be done about it. His notes were carefully filed away for future use although I suspect he wanted someone to smoke an imported cigar before the case played itself out, just so that the folly might prove useful.

  He paced our rooms with an increasing tempo, which began to grate on my nerves. He rejected my suggestion of playing his violin and I found it necessary to caution him from criticising Mrs. Hudson when she tried to bring him some unwanted victuals.

  For myself, I had done what I could and now had to wait to see if Westfall delivered on his promise. Even if his message reached Lord Rowton there was no surety the former secretary would consent to a conversation with an unknown doctor about such a delicate matter. In an effort to distract myself, I spent the morning reading more about the Boer conflict from materials left for us by Professor West. It was dry academic stuff in the main, but it made clear that the British military strategy had failed at every turn. If I were in Parliament, I too would have wanted this conflict brought swiftly to a conclusion and brushed under the carpet.

  “Confound it, Watson, there must be something else we could be doing?” Holmes said in the strained voice of a man slowly going out of his mind.

  This was rather an odd set of circumstances. In the normal course of things, it would be Holmes who was out and about, making inquiries and speaking with his growing connections. Instead, he had been forced to wait for me to use my superior network of connections to find us paths to follow. He is a man of action, so sitting idly by, waiting on the happenstance that Lord Rowton acquiesced to his relation’s request, was more than he could manage.

  His ill mood coloured my own, since, as I noted earlier, waiting is not a strength I possess.

  “We have gotten nowhere with the Admiralty so we are now studying his last tour of duty,” I said gently, in measured tones. “I am sitting here re-reading about the battles to better understand where young Wynter may have gotten himself. Thankfully, the Dido’s whereabouts are well documented.”

  “Which makes the absence of one man all the more curious,” Holmes interjected.

  We sat in silence until finally he returned to his feet and reached for his hat. “Carry on with what you are doing; I will use my time more wisely.” I offered a raised eyebrow. “I will be out gathering materials for future experiments,” Holmes explained.

  “Ah,” I said. “Very good. But please see that you do not burn down the building should I be out when you return. I am loath to admit it, but I’ve grown very fond of Baker Street in our short time here.”

  * * *

  That was the last I was to see of Holmes for some time.

  After supper I received a card from Westfall, delivered by a young soldier, confirming that Lord Rowton would be willing to see me the following day at the House of Lords library. Apparently, he was visiting from his castle in Shropshire, which was providential as it would save our investigation considerable time. I wished Holmes were present to rejoice in the news but his whereabouts remained a mystery to me.

  I did not sleep particularly well that night, worrying in no small part as to where Holmes might be, and convinced he had taken refuge in an opium den rather than face the prospect of being bored. But sleep I did, only to wake far from refreshed.

  I fussed all morning with my attire, brushing my suit and shining my shoes. I was about to take tea with a baron, a man who stood in the shadow of greatness and remained a confidant of the Queen. It was not every day one found oneself in the presence of such power.

  I ensured promptness by taking a cab, leaving an hour to spare, which meant I had to pace the streets a good while before entering the Palace of Westminster. A smartly attired young aide escorted me to the library, a series of attached rooms, each with its own name. There were wooden shelves neatly stacked with leather-clad volumes from floor to ceiling, most with cracked spines, showing they were actually consulted rather than left to gather dust.

  We passed through the Queen’s Room and Brougham Room on our way to the Truro Room, the smallest and least occupied of the spaces. Two red leather chairs of high-backed chesterfield design were to the right of a large fireplace, and there, reading The Times, was Baron Rowton himself. He was not an especially tall man, but his brushed back hair and full, greying beard were immaculately manicured. He was in a suit, complete with waistcoat and bow tie, much as he had appeared
when serving Disraeli.

  Upon seeing me, he rose and shook hands, placing his left hand around my forearm in a familiar embrace. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Doctor. Please, sit.”

  I took the proffered chair. The leather was supple and had the ingrained aroma of wax. Being summer, the fireplace was empty, and a nearby window was open. We were alone.

  “I am to understand you did my family a service,” Montagu William Lowry-Corry said.

  “Just my duty to a fellow soldier,” I said.

  “Still, Britain and his mother appreciate your efforts. And now comes the time to repay your service. How may I help you?”

  I had been mentally rehearsing the key points I wanted to raise without ruffling his feathers or calling undue attention to the case, but it was difficult to know precisely where to begin. After all, this was a bit of a stretch and on the surface would seem absurd to those with a traditional outlook. I decided to be circumspect at the outset before making what was sure to be seen as an outrageous request. I knew that his lordship had begun his career as a lawyer before his outgoing personality brought him to the attention of influential Conservatives, including a comparatively young Benjamin Disraeli. I would start with flattery.

  “First, much as you appreciate my own small service, I have to express my admiration for all that you accomplished, both at the bar and then with Lord Beaconsfield.” I deliberately used his title as opposed to the more familiar name, Disraeli.

  “It was a pleasure to serve so great a man,” Lord Rowton said.

  “Quite so, and I read how you rushed back from Algiers to be with him in those final hours.”

  “It was pell-mell getting there, but it was well worth the effort and I would do it again in a heartbeat. We worked together since 1865, a full year before I was appointed his secretary—can you imagine that, side by side for sixteen years? It would have been wrong not to be with him at the end.”

  “Did it not strike you as odd how quickly he failed in the end?” I asked carefully.