(For parts one to five of the good doctor’s investigation, click on the Doctor Watson Investigates tag. A revised ebook of this story is now available – on Amazon (US), Amazon (UK) and Smashwords.)
I was utterly confounded!
“Miss Travers,” I responded, trying to control the tremor in my voice, “surely you must remember our meeting only this morning?”
“You must be mistaken, sir,” she replied, in a voice that was noticeably colder, “I have been here all day, and have been too grief-stricken to take any visitors.”
“But…”
“But nothing!” Her father interrupted. “Sir, I don’t know what kind of scoundrel you are, or why you should come to my house in a time of grief for my family and bother us with such a pack of obvious falsehoods, but I shall tolerate your presence no further.” He rang the bell, and the footman appeared again. “Chalmers, please escort this… gentleman… to the door.”
I attempted to protest, but in vain. Neither Lord Hernshire nor his daughter would listen to a word I said, and I had to leave.
As the servant was handing me my hat and cloak, with what seemed somewhat indecent haste, a thought struck.
“Would you mind telling me where Mr. Courtenay lives?”
“And why would you be wanting to know that?”
“I have some small business with him before I return to London.”
“He’s staying at the inn, sir. The Black Hen, mile and a half down the road.”
“At the inn? I thought he was local.”
“Oh no, sir. He travels a lot – he has a house in London, but he spends a lot of time in foreign parts. I hear he was born in the colonies, and still travels there on business. So he stays at the inn when he’s around Hernshire.”
“So what brought him to Hernshire in the first place?”
“That wouldn’t be any of my business, sir. And nor, if you don’t mind me saying so, would it be yours. Now his Lordship has asked me to escort you off the premises, and I would be obliged if you would leave quietly and allow me to be about my work.”
I walked to the inn – which turned out to be closer to two miles away, most of it uphill, and led me to wish that I had worn a pair of sturdy hiking boots rather than the indoor shoes I was wearing – lost in thought.
Clearly some very grotesque business was afoot. Cynthia Travers did not remember our meeting – and her bafflement had appeared genuine enough, rather than the result of some thespian trickery – but it had only happened that morning. Not only that, but everything she had told me in that meeting appeared to be correct. Her sister, Rose, did appear to be missing, and the family did appear to be assuming her death.
After my unfortunate first impression, I could count on no help from anyone in Hernshire Hall, even though our aims must surely be as one. The only person left to turn to was Roger Courtenay. Rose’s fiance would surely be of some assistance, and his mind had not been prejudiced towards me.
By the time I got to the Black Hen, it was nearing dusk. Enquiring after Mr. Courtenay, I found him sat alone. I asked to join him, and while he seemed surprised he consented readily enough.
Over a steak-and-kidney pie and pint of ale, the first food I had been able to have since breaking my fast many hours earlier, I spoke with Mr. Courtenay, and found him as described, a charming, articulate man with a noble bearing. Behind his bright red beard, his face seemed somewhat familiar, but I couldn’t place the resemblance.
I explained the situation as I understood it, and was grateful to find that he did not seem to disbelieve me.
“Cynthia is a strange child,” he said to me when I had finished relating my tale, “and somewhat given to odd behaviour. I was almost engaged to her myself at one time, before I met poor Rose… Thankfully, Rose is much less hysterical than her sister.”
“We must try to find Rose, despite her sister’s strange behaviour. Sir, I give you my word that I shall do everything that is in my power to return your bride to you unharmed.”
“Sir, I am grateful. Why, with your help, and that of the great Sherlock Holmes, I believe I shall soon see my bride again. Perhaps even tomorrow, eh?”
“Indeed. Stout fellow! That’s just the spirit!”
“But for today, sir, it draws late, and the day has been an exhausting one. I must retire. Are you taking a room here?”
It hadn’t occured to me until then, but it was too late to get back to London that night, so I requested a room, and I too retired for the night.
My sleep was disturbed in the middle of the night by a noise, and I woke up to hear the doorknob rattling. I had, of course, locked the door, but fearing burglary or something worse I nonetheless called “Who’s there? I warn you, I have a gun!”
The reply was, however, one that amused me at my own anxiety, for it was Roger. “Only me, Doctor. Sorry. Got up for a quick breath of fresh air, because I couldn’t sleep, and tried the wrong door in the dark. Mine’s next door.”
Mollified, I lay down and went to sleep again. But I woke not long after to a smell of smoke.
Running out of the room, I noticed the smoke was coming out from under Roger’s door. I knocked on the door and enquired “Roger, are you in there?”, but I heard no reply. I knocked louder. “Roger!”
Satisfied that he was not going to answer, I started shouting “Fire!”, and roused the landlord and landlady from their bed. While the landlady got to safety outside, the landlord and I started attacking the door with our shoulders, it being locked and the handle too hot to touch.
Eventually, after several attempts, we broke the door down. We fetched water and doused the fire (one lucky aspect of the fire being in an inn was that liquids were plentiful there), but even through the smoke, we could see that Roger was no longer in the room.
Instead, near the burning mattress, was a note.
It read “I SHALL STILL HAVE WHAT IS MINE!”
Tagged: Doctor Watson, Doctor Watson Investigates, Sherlock Holmes, the case of the scarlet neckerchief
