“Although you say she’s not there now?”
“She’s been doing so well the past few months, Ronnie says, that there’s been discussion about moving her to Bedlam’s other facility down in Witley, which is a sort of halfway-house where patients are sent to test if they are ready to be de-certified. So when Vivian got news of her brother’s celebration and asked if she might attend—taking an attendant in case of distress—the doctors agreed to issue her a pass. The party was on Saturday. Vivian and the nurse went the Monday before. All seemed fine until Thursday, when she told Ronnie’s mother she was feeling overly tired, and thought she should return to London. She and the nurse left the next morning, and the birthday celebration went on without her. But the following Monday, the hospital sent a wire to say that Miss Beaconsfield—which seems to be what they call her there—would require hospital permission if she wished to prolong her stay.”
“She planned her escape.”
“Someone did.”
He looked up from his half-filled pipe, one eyebrow going up.
“When she arrived, last Monday, Vivian told Ronnie’s mother that she wanted to wear her diamonds for the celebration. These aren’t the Beaconsfield family jewels—which, since Edward isn’t married, Ronnie’s mother planned to wear—but a set left to Vivian by her mother. A heavy, old-fashioned necklace, tiara, bracelet, and earrings. So when Lady Dorothy got the Beaconsfield necklace out of the bank vault before the party, she brought Vivian’s as well.”
“And the mad aunt took those with her.”
“Those, and an assortment of other small valuables. The house being in such turmoil with the party, no one noticed—or rather, Lady Dorothy noticed on Friday night that the jewellery was missing, but she wasn’t about to bring it to the Marquess’ attention, since it would have caused a fury. She planned to go down to Bedlam on Tuesday and quietly retrieve them. Except that Monday night, she learned that her sister-in-law was not there.”
“And the attendant?”
“No one has seen her, either.”
The words fell into the night, turning the June air cool. After a time, Holmes stirred, and struck a match to hold to his pipe bowl. Our surroundings danced for a moment in the brightness, then darkness fell again as he shook out the flame.
“Three possibilities?” he suggested.
“I agree. One, Vivian planned her escape from Bedlam, and the nurse is in on it. Two, the nurse fell to temptation, and has either abducted Vivian or done away with her. Or three, someone else has set it up to look as if the madwoman has struck.”
“Why not: four, that Vivian Beaconsfield planned her escape, and has done away with the nurse?”
“I can’t see that,” I said. “True, the woman’s hold on reality appears slippery. But nothing in her attitude or her background speaks to cold-blooded murder.”
“Fireplace pokers?” he murmured.
Well, there was that.
“In any event, I told Ronnie I’d see what I could do. I’ll go up to Town tomorrow and talk with her, then probably take the train down to Selwick to have a word with the family.”
“And the servants,” he added.
“And the estate manager, who will know about insurance and the condition of the Beaconsfield finances.”
“Shall I begin enquiries about the principals? The Marquess, Vivian herself, the nurse?”
“Don’t bother with Ronnie’s mother. Lady Dorothy hasn’t the imagination for crime. The others, yes. If you can keep it very quiet.”
Sherlock Holmes did not dignify my caveat with an answer.
Chapter Four
HOLMES CAME UP TO TOWN with me the next morning, both to set his enquiries under way and (of greater concern) to do some work at the British Library. We went our separate ways at the Victoria station, he to his books and me to my family in turmoil. As we parted, I told him not to expect me back in Sussex for a day or two. His hand came up in a half-wave of acknowledgment.
Ronnie lived along the southern edges of the Maida Vale area. As I walked over from the Edgware Road stop, I thought my preoccupation with her Aunt Vivian had begun to invade my hearing as well as my mind: uncanny wails seemed to echo through the streets as I neared, eerie ululations that grew ever louder as I approached her door. It took some pounding to draw her attention, but she eventually came, looking harried and unkempt and not far from tears herself.
Behind her, young Master Simon broke off his full-throated protests to eye the cause of this outrageous interruption.
“Mary, sorry! Hope you haven’t been here long—come in, I’ll put on the kettle. I don’t know if Simon is teething, though it seems unlikely at his age, or if he’s coming down with something. He may simply be constipated—Nurse is determined to introduce him to the pot and he’s equally deter—”
Fortunately for my delicate sensibilities, the young man decided we’d had long enough on our own and opened his mouth again.
I’d never realised how difficult it could be to carry on intelligent conversation over an unhappy child. Or even carry out intelligent thought: I could well see why the lad’s nurse had taken to her bed with a sick head-ache. After five minutes of trying to speak over the roar, I told Ronnie I wouldn’t take tea, thanks, but thought I’d set off for Selwick right away, and see her on my way back through Town.
I could only hope that by the time I returned, the nurse would either be recovered, or replaced.
Standing in the flat’s doorway while the three-year-old scion of the Beaconsfield clan expressed his utter fury from around her knees, Ronnie handed me a photograph of her aunt, and managed to convey the information that her mother would be home and expecting me. I made my hasty escape, thanking all the domestic gods that I had not been chosen to reproduce. I took a nice peaceable, solitary luncheon while a photographer’s studio made some copies of the photo. I also stopped by a telegraphist’s to confirm my arrival at Selwick, leaving the arrival time vague so Ronnie’s mother would not feel obliged to provide a car.
I’d been to Selwick Hall two or three times, brief visits that tended to be a flurry of social activities rather than leisurely days pottering about the countryside. Which was unfortunate, in a way, since the countryside was classically English Downland, with gently rolling hills and ancient patches of woodland. On a June afternoon, with no cloud in the sky, it would be no hardship to walk the two miles to the Hall.
The hedgerows were white with blossom, the fields scattered with new-cropped sheep. Twice I had to press into the hawthorn so as not to be run down by speeding motorcars, and twice laboriously peel my garments out of the thorns. Once my heart nearly stopped when a trio of partridges exploded up from the silent road, and once I spent an awkward couple of minutes trying to engage a sullen child in conversation before leaving him to his swinging gate.
I eventually turned down the drive from the lane, and made my way towards Selwick Hall.
The house was neither grand nor particularly large by Surrey standards, a redbrick, three-storey building with pseudo-Elizabethan chimneys and a slightly off-centre portico that emphasised the lopsided nature of the two wings, only one of which was deep enough for a series of rooms. It was the kind of house that called for a large and boisterous family, instead of individuals left behind by death.