fic for piplover: The House of Usher (2/2)
The House of Usher
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The clouds had thinned and though no ray of sunshine was visible, the sky was appreciably brighter than when we had gone inside. Corvus implored us to come with him in his carriage and Holmes agreed, sending me to tell the hansom driver to trail after us and wait at the solicitor’s office.
Corvus was nearly fainted in the corner, his arm still through Sherlock’s, who, perforce, was seated next to him. Braithewaite was seated facing Corvus with Adamantine situated as far away from Braithewaite as he could manage. I took the place next to Sherlock and we set off.
It was a silent journey scented with lilac.
Twice Mr Braithewaite attempted conversation, first, to express his hope that the evening traffic would not impede our progress to his office near St Paul’s and when that garnered no replies, he said he was glad that the rain had held off and hoped that it would continue to do so until we were all safely home. I gave him a nod each time, but as no one else made any sort of response, he turned his genial face towards the river.
Once arrived, Mr Braithewaite had settled Sherlock and I in his waiting room and with apologies to us, had taken only Adamantine and Corvus into his office. Our client had grown even paler than he had been at being separated from us and Sherlock had had to assure him we would be waiting when he was finished. As soon as the office door shut, Sherlock said he would go downstairs for a word with the hansom driver and I said I hoped Corvus would not call for him until he had returned.
“I am sure you would be able to deal with it,” Sherlock said. “You will be pleased to know that your medical kit is in the bottom of the satchel, complete with a new bottle of sal volatile.” And with that, he was gone.
I was slightly mollified; I had wondered at the satchel’s weight. Even so, the next quarter hour was an anxious one spent listening for a thump upon the floor signalling Corvus’ collapse. Fortunately my kit was not called into service, for when Dr Braithewaite next opened the door, Sherlock had resumed his seat by my side and Dr Adamantine was able to glower at both of us as he departed.
“He shall be a permanent fixture at Usher now,” Corvus said when we joined him.
“Adamantine?” I hazarded to guess.
“Yes. The probate of Mrs Usher’s will was concluded shortly before Roderick…” Corvus took a deep breath. “It did not please Roderick that Dr Adamantine would be at Usher regardless of anyone’s health. His mother had granted the doctor a life estate in a hunting lodge on their land, and as executor it was Roderick’s duty to carry out her wishes, and he did. Carry them out. But it troubled him.”
There was a lull in our conversation after this. I thought Sherlock might make some enquiries on the point, but he did not. I took it as a cue for me to speak whilst his attention was elsewhere.
“He did not look like a man who had just come into property,” I remarked.
“And a £1000 a year,” Corvus added.
“Perhaps he has other worries,” I said.
“Perhaps,” Corvus agreed. “He was not pleased to learn that it would be some time before Roderick’s and Madeline’s wills could be probated, and he could receive the items of jewellery that they had left to him.”
“I doubt the amount of time surprised him,” Sherlock said. “He’s had to wait a year for their mother’s bequest.”
“Roderick thought he might be disappointed not to be named successor executor in his Will, if Madeline should die before him,” Corvus explained. “I think that is why he insisted on my keeping the signed copy with me.” At that, his head drooped upon his breast.
“Ah,” said Mr Braithewaite, “so you already know the full terms of the Will.”
Corvus did not answer.
“Perhaps it would be best to be certain that they are identical,” Sherlock said.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Mr Braithewaite said, not appearing the least offended. He turned to Corvus. “Shall I proceed?”
Corvus looked up from his reverie and stared at Braithewaite’s expectant face. “Yes,” he said with a start, as though the words were just then reaching his brain. “Yes,” he repeated and sat up straighter. “Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson are going to help me fulfil Roderick’s wishes; they must hear everything you have to say to me.”
***
“How is he?” Sherlock asked when I returned to the study where he was surrounded by papers.
“I mixed him a mild dose of laudanum,” I sighed, “and sat with him until it took effect.” Sherlock knew the reservations I had about excessive recourse to the drug and the opinion I had already formed of Corvus’ use of it for more than medicinal purposes. “Plain whiskey was not going to suffice, and he needed the sleep. It’s obvious that he has been getting little of it.”
He stood at that and gathered up a stack of what looked to be receipts. “Some of our investigations will have to wait for the morning,” he said. “Shall we repair to our room?”
“I’ll be fine here by the fire,” I said, loosening my cravat.
“You won’t be comfortable nor rested in the morning,” Sherlock said, coming to stand close enough to tower over me.
He uses that to make a point sometimes. It is more effective than I care to admit.
“Corvus had his housekeeper prepare a room for us this morning. It seems he planned to keep us with him from the outset. She was kind enough to explain when she came by on her way to light the fire a half hour ago. By now, any chill open windows might have left behind should be thoroughly banished.”
“A bed’s better than a chair, but I shan’t be comfortable,” I complained. The lack of a proper respite after our last case was beginning to make itself known.
“Your nightshirt is in the satchel, along with your razor and toothbrush and fresh linen and hose for the morrow,” Sherlock announced.
“You knew we would be staying,” I said and let him herd me towards the door to the next room.
“Yes,” he said, “and you know I think better when you are nearby.”
“I’m near now,” I protested.
He bent near my ear. “I’ve searched this room. I wanted to search the bedroom but the housekeeper was dashing in and out. It’s where Madeline Usher stayed when she was in London, with an adjoining door to Roderick’s room. Those have been their bedrooms since they were children.”
“I am convinced,” I said, opening the door. The room was pleasantly warm and the bed looked very comfortable.
Sherlock smiled. He likes convincing me of things.
***
“Aha!” Sherlock exclaimed.
I awoke from a dream of sun-drenched linens to a strange, shadowy room. I shook my head and spotted Sherlock seated on the carpet, silhouetted by a candle on the floor beside him. I crawled to the foot of the bed and peered at the glow in which he sat.
He heard me and held up the box from his lap.
By the candle’s light, I could see that the box was bound like a heavy book. Two walls of the room were lined with bookcases. Who knew how long it had taken him to find that particular book, which was a fake. I glanced about but did not see a clock.
“No need for a visit to the General Registry Office,” he whispered. “Look.”
I pulled the coverlet off the bed, gathered it around me and shuffled to his side.
“Sit,” he said. “There are a number of these.”
I sat on the ottoman against which he was leaning and he passed one paper after another over his shoulder to me.
“It was this house that Dr Adamantine hoped to be given, not merely because it is in London, but because he wished to look for these. There was always the chance that they had been at Usher and therefore were no longer a threat to him, but it was equally likely that they were somewhere in London, in a safety deposit box, with a solicitor or among the papers here. If we had not been with Corvus, Adamantine would have inveigled his way into this house and tried to search,” Sherlock explained.
“Not everyone is as skilful at searching as you are. It might have taken him weeks,” I said.
“All the more reason why he would have liked to have had control of the house himself, but short of that, he probably hoped he could persuade Corvus that he needed his constant medical attendance,” Sherlock said. “Hence his extreme displeasure when your profession was revealed today.”
“I see,” I said, still less than half awake. “So other than being avaricious, what has he been doing?”
“That first paper I gave you,” he said, “see if you can find any familiar names upon it.”
“I’m too sleepy for this,” I said, but pulled the first document from the bottom of the pages on my lap and squinted at it. “It’s a marriage certificate.”
“Yes.”
I tilted it to the light. “Madeline Anabel Lenore Usher and…ah, here is Lt Simpson, but why wasn’t ‘beloved husband’ written on the tomb?”
“I might point out that not every spouse is beloved, even when an elopement or clandestine marriage is involved. Marry in haste and so on,” he said.
“Yes, all right, but how do you know it was a clandestine marriage?” I asked.
“I would have noticed an Usher engagement or wedding announcement,” Sherlock said.
“Maybe they didn’t use a London paper,” I suggested.
“They kept a house in London, have had a crypt in London since before Westminster Abbey was built, of course, they would use a London paper,” he said.
“Also, there is this.” Sherlock held up another paper. “Not conclusive proof, but a letter from Roderick to Madeline dated within a month of the marriage saying ‘Of course, I will keep your confidence, but I fear for what may lie ahead for you both if mother finds out.’”
“Wasn’t mother going to wonder who the interloper in the family crypt was a few years later?” I asked. “Do we have his death certificate, by any chance?”
“We do. It’s the second paper I gave you. He had been seriously injured in an accident aboard ship and sent back to England to recuperate. Shortly before he was due to return to active duty, he contracted smallpox and died here in London, in fact, in the next room, two years before his mother-in-law. She had not been in robust health for several years prior to her death. Roderick mentions how she rarely ventured even into the garden anymore in the same letter from which I just read. It would appear that the annual trips to London were a thing of the past for her well before Simpson’s death, so it being seen by her mother shouldn't have worried Madeline.”
“So that’s how they maintained the fiction for so long. Madeline would come to London when Simpson would be back in England, which was not that often. Wouldn’t the staff here wonder about the bloke that died here?”
“It seems he was presented as a friend of Roderick’s, thus the use of his room,” he said. “There’s a letter here somewhere that refers to what they did one time when Roderick was in London at the same time. He and Simpson shared the room apparently.”
“People here must have known,” I said.
“If they did, it seems they didn’t tell tales. No one was disinherited. No evidence of annulments or divorces, forced or otherwise.”
“So why didn’t Madeline add the inscription below her husband’s name once her mother died?” I asked.
Possibly Madeline was already too ill herself by then to attend to such matters. Has nothing struck you about the symptoms of her malady?” Sherlock asked.
“You know what you always say about theories before facts,” I admonished.
“We shall have facts soon, I think,” he said and held up a locket enclosing a small braid of hair. “This was enclosed with a letter to Lt Simpson from Madeline. He had kept them together and she had had them back when he died. I should be able to test the hair for traces of poison.”
“But she would have given him that years ago,” I said.
“A new lock of hair in a new piece of jewellery for each anniversary,” Sherlock explained. “Watch fob, tie pin, ring...”
“All right,” I said, “so would it have been these locks of hair that Adamantine wanted to get back, assuming he even knew she did this.”
“He is not likely to have known. What I think he would like to have back is this,” Sherlock said, waving another document.
I rested my cheek on the top of his head. “Can this be explained in bed,” I asked. “My mind is awake, but my body isn’t.”
“Yes,” he said, “yes, it can. Tuck yourself back in.”
I dragged myself back to bed and a moment later Sherlock set the candle on the night table and the book box on the bed. He settled cross-legged next to me and pulled something from the box.
“An 1893 diary belonging to Madeline,” Sherlock said, holding up a book with black ribbons dangling from the covers. The entry for 23 April 1893 reads: ‘at half seven this morning, Anabel Alberta Usher Simpson entered this world, six months after my beloved Albert was taken from us both.’ Folded between the pages for 23 and 24 April is a birth certificate for Anabel Alberta Simpson Usher, born on 23 April 1893, daughter of Roderick Arthur Alfred Usher and Alberta Georgiana Simpson, recorded 10 May 1893. Dr Adamantine signed it as a person present at the birth, relationship: attending physician. Tucked into the back of the diary is a telegram from Adamantine to Madeline: ‘Arriving Euston 10 May 1 PM train from Manchester. Please meet with carriage. Must return on evening train, your mother insists.’”
“Had he been in attendance?” I asked.
“No. He was in Usher. There was a mid-wife in attendance. More information from the diary.”
“So the baby was born in London?” I asked.
“Yes, then Adamantine came down from Usher, went with Madeline to register the birth as Roderick’s child with Madeline posing as Roderick’s wife, Alberta Simpson,” Sherlock explained.
“Do we know whether Roderick agreed to this?”
“I haven’t found anything yet. It would appear that he knew by the time he drew up his will, however, and that is why there are the clauses about a child or a ward,” Sherlock said.
“But he was still unwilling to explain it to Corvus. Why? Mrs Usher was dead. There was no one to chastise Roderick or Madeline or disinherit anyone. I’m guessing that was why Madeline kept the marriage and the baby a secret. But by keeping Corvus uninformed, Roderick was risking the child not being taken care of at all. I can’t see any reason why he would do that,” I said, regretting that I was not more clear-headed. “Have you figured out where the child is yet?”
“I think the child was here until Adamantine had her brought back.”
“When?” I said, sitting up. “Before the house collapsed? Was it a child crying in the house that Corvus heard?”
“No, the child was here in London until Roderick died,” he said.
I scowled. “Shouldn’t we be stopping Adamantine?"
“I have one of the Irregulars following him. I was surprised you didn’t recognise Barrows driving the hansom.”
I shook my head. “How can you be so calm?” I demanded.
“The child is with the housekeeper’s daughter, who is her nurse. All three of them went to Usher a couple days ago. The housekeeper is only just back,” he said. “And I have Barrows tracking Adamantine. I want to know what else he does. Barrows will send us telegrams, as necessary, and watch out for the child once he reaches Usher.”
I eased back under the covers. “All right, then, Barrows will keep track of the little girl until Corvus can go to claim her. But I still don’t see why Madeline did not clear everything up regarding her child once her mother had died and avoid…all this.”
“There’s an unpleasant little note from Adamantine to Madeline dated shortly after her mother’s death. Let me find it,” Sherlock said, leafing through the pages of the diary. “Madeline wrote that she stayed on in London for several weeks after her mother’s funeral service at the abbey, probably to spend time with her daughter. Adamantine seemed keen to have her back at Usher, but not the child. Here it is. Hmm. Weather fine…brother’s health concerning…not sure if it might be contagious…best not to risk such a young child, especially one that is ‘his’ and ‘yours’.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Oh. Setting the record straight would be awkward and it would reveal Adamantine’s unprofessional part in the deception,” I said.
“Also, he wouldn’t have any leverage with them anymore. From what Corvus says, Roderick did not especially like Adamantine, he was simply the family doctor of whom his mother had thought highly and his sister’s doctor by default more or less,” Sherlock said.
“But now that they are all gone, what would his interest be in the child?” I asked.
“Perhaps he would like to be her guardian and have control of her assets for nearly twenty years,” Sherlock said. “It’s a mundane reason, but often more than sufficient.”
“If even half of these possibilities turn out to be true, he is a scoundrel of the worst sort, and should be apprehended as soon as possible,” I hissed.
“I sent one of the Irregulars to Lestrade’s home with a message to pay us a call here in the morning,” Sherlock said.
“When did you do that?” I asked, reassured at the thoroughness of his measures.
“While you were sleeping. I have a couple Irregulars keeping an eye on this house as well,” he said.
I yawned, and despite my outrage, my eyes were closing. “Your troops are well-trained,” I murmured and let go of consciousness again.
***
“We could be in Rome by now,” I exclaimed as the cart bounced and jostled us along the track.
“All roads lead to Rome,” Sherlock said, handling the reins with that gentle facility that he has with animals. “Very few roads lead to Usher Fell.”
“No roads lead there,” I groused. My leg ached, my shoulder ached, my back was beginning to ache. “In good conscience, you cannot call this a road.” I dared not think what passing this way would have been like if it had rained in the morning.
I heard a horse whinnying. Corvus was riding a short way ahead and I hoped nothing had frightened his horse and caused him to be thrown.
We rounded a small out-cropping of rock and the vista opened before us, sloping away to a glassy expanse of water. It had to be fairer in its spring garb, with the tarn tinted blue by a clear, mid-day sky, than the view Corvus would have seen in the twilight of late winter, and yet the scene emanated an austerity that I could not ignore. I recognised the stand of blasted trees that marked where the house had been swallowed whole and the small bridge over which Corvus had fled. The sedge along the shore had a haze of white bloom on it.
Corvus and his horse were standing perfectly still facing it.
We rattled up closer to him and stopped.
“It’s changed,” he said. “You must not be able to recognise the landscape I described.”
“On the contrary,” I said. “I recognised it immediately and think I can imagine it under a cold, grey sky.”
“I won’t keep her here,” Corvus said. “We can stay in the house in London or I’ll find another where the air is better in Hampstead or Richmond. Or we could take a house in France or in Italy, so she can learn languages and study painting. Roderick and I spend a year travelling in Europe after university. It was a good year.”
His horse tossed its head.
“But his sister wrote to say their mother was ill and wished him to come home. He left and I heard little from him after that. I just kept travelling, and was only stopping in England long enough to change direction when his summons reached me.” He sighed and looked around towards us. “ I will certainly be changing direction now.”
The carthorse pawed at the earth; the harness jingled. Sherlock made a soft, hushing sound to the animal and it quieted.
I caught his eye. We had spoken of Italy now and then, of the art and the sun.
“Shall we go down and begin?” Sherlock said.
Corvus nodded and turned his horse onto the path.
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