24. THE CASE OF THE MIDNIGHT WEEPING

Noises in the night...

“What I don’t understand,” said Holmes, lifting his eyes from his copy of The Times for a moment and looking my way, “is why men and women get married in the first place.”

“I believe it’s to do with having a family, Holmes,” I said.

“But why?” he asked, “why not employ a certain quality of woman to have babies and bring them up in a, what would you call it, a commune or some kind of special workhouse?”

“Like cattle you mean, Holmes?” I asked, not anxious to appear to agree with him.

“If that’s the way they want to be,” he shot back at me. “I’ve just been studying this article in the Times. It would appear that there is an almost total incompatibility between the sexes, Watson. And the consequence of that is tempers get frayed and men, being the stronger of the two sexes, end up inflicting untold damage on the women.”

“Were your parents like that, Holmes?” I asked.

“What?” he barked at me, “my parents like what?”

“At war,” I said, mildly, “like you described, with your mother, shall we say, beaten by your father to a pulp when tempers got frayed?”

“They were not!” he declared, somewhat hotly for a man who had introduced the subject in the first place, “and neither were my grandparents. I wasn’t talking about family, Watson, but men and women in general.”

“So your own parents weren’t part of the general tribe of mankind,” I asked, “they were somehow different? Whereas others are constantly fighting, with the males beating their women to a bloody mess, so to speak, yours were more genteel? As, for your information, were mine. And before my Mary passed away, we lived harmonious lives as well and the only violence was the delightful sort that is part and parcel of planning an addition to the family.”

“It’s just this article, Watson,” he purred, and turned back to reading his paper.

Not ten minutes passed before there was an interruption as Mrs Hudson knocked the door.

“There’s a lady to see you,” she said, and sniffed, “and it would be a good thing to go easy on her,” she added.

The lady was a familiar sight to those of us who study the higher class of Newspaper in which photographic images of the elite are frequently included, usually because of some great deed they have performed. And that was why both Holmes and I recognised our visitor.

“Lady Pinkerton!” exclaimed Holmes, and he rushed to offer her a comfortable chair, “it is such an honour to acquaint ourselves with you...”

“Mr Holmes,” she said in a portly voice in which I detected the merest inflection of tears. “I am in great need of advice and your particular kind of service.”

“We are here for you,” he answered crisply, “pray tell us what is distressing you.”

“You will be aware of our house at Bunkleigh,” she said, and her voice might have sounded imperious had it not been for the undertone of doubt and unhappiness that infected it. “We, as you will appreciate, have many servants, for we are busy people and need service in order to allow us time to go about our business.”

“Of course,” nodded Holmes.

“Well, in my room at night, when the house is otherwise quiet and at rest, I hear weeping,” she said, “We have made enquiries of the housekeeper, Mrs Ringworm, but she will not admit to us who is so filled with grief that she must rend most nights with misery.”

“She will not admit, you say?” asked Holmes.

Lady Pinkerton nodded. “It has become unbearable,” she whispered. “It is our home. Bunkleigh has long been a happy place where staff and family co-exist in harmony. I have put pressure on Mrs Ringworm, for she, being the housekeeper, must know everything that is of any importance and most certainly must be aware of who is doing so much weeping. And I have looked at the faces of the maids and kitchen staff in the hope that red eyes or dribbling tears might give the poor tormented soul away, but have seen nothing but rosy cheeks and pleasing smiles.”

“Has this been going on for long?” I asked.

“For several days,” she replied, and shuddered, “and it breaks my heart to think there is a soul bearing grief for so long.”

“Then, my Lady, we will accompany you and make enquiries on your behalf,” said Holmes suavely. “I cannot permit so fine a lady as yourself to have a moment’s grief for longer than is necessary. Watson, prepare to leave for Bunkleigh!”

And that is what we did.

Bunkleigh is a fine house several miles out of town, built, I suppose, during the early years of the late Victoria’s reign. There is agricultural land all around as well as a fine sprinkling of mature trees and a loop of cable that meant they were fortunate enough to own a telephone. All in all it represents my own image of the perfect big house.

Mrs Ringworm was a large woman with a glorious red nose, testament in my opinion to a fondness for port or sherry, but other than that proboscis I could find nothing about her that was cause for even mild criticism.

“Mrs Ringworm, you know why we are here?” demanded Holmes. “You are aware that your mistress is deeply concerned that someone in this house is deeply distressed?”

Mrs Ringworm nodded. “I know, sir,” she said, “though to be honest I’ve never heard so much as a sob, but then I wouldn’t because I sleep well, being a hard worker and in need of my shut-eye.”

“Then you have no explanation?” asked Holmes, eyeing her keenly. “Is there, perhaps, a servant who is so ill-treated by another that she needs to weep herself to sleep at night?”

Mrs Ringworm shook her head violently and a clip flew out of her hair and struck me fair and square on the face.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she almost shouted.

“That’s all right. No damage done,” I told her, smiling. “Now attend, if you will, to Lady Pinkerton’s disturbed nights.”

“There is no disharmony downstairs,” she said, firmly. “I would know if there was.”

“And where does Lady Pinkerton hear the weeping?” asked Holmes.

“In her room,” sniffed Mrs Ringworm, “as though it was coming from next door bedroom, she says, but there’s nobody next door, nobody at all: it’s the master’s library, his personal one, and there’s no bed in it.”

“What is there, then?” I asked, “just books?”

She nodded. “And a desk, and that’s about it,” she said. “And of course Lord Pinkerton’s telephone. He’s really proud of that. It keeps him in touch with Westminster, you know.”

“Watson and I will stay here tonight,” decided Holmes, addressing Lady Pinkerton, “and by dawn we hope to have run your miserable soul to ground and be able to offer what help we may.”

The rest of the afternoon we spent becoming familiar with the house and its various odd corners, of which there were several. It appeared to have been built or designed by a true eccentric who appreciated the oddities that can be built into architecture.

That night we occupied an unused bedroom at the end of the corridor on which Lady Pinkerton’s own room was situated. Her husband was away on business but we assured her we would only disturb her at need.

The night started silently, there being no hint of any misery so far as I could tell, but within an hour there was a frantic knocking at our door and Holmes rushed to see what might be afoot.

Lady Pinkerton stood there in her night clothes, her face ashen, her fingers interlocked in front of her.

“Can you hear it?” she begged us.

“There is nothing,” replied Holmes. “Neither Watson nor I have heard a sound until you came to the door just now.”

“It’s so loud in my room,” she shuddered.

We ran down the corridor to her door.

“May I?” asked Holmes, and she nodded in reply.

Inside, the sound we heard chilled me to the bone. It was eerie, perhaps a soul in torment or maybe something of another world. And rather than come from inside the house it seemed to come from the window, which was shuttered.

Holmes raced to the window and opened the shutter so as to be able to locate the source of the weeping sound, but as the shutter opened the noise stopped.

“I always close the shutter,” muttered Lady Pinkerton, “I need complete dark in order to get a good night’s sleep.”

Holmes was peering around, and then he reached out and fiddled with something just out of my sight.

“Ah! I have it!” he exclaimed, “Lady Pinkerton, there is no soul in distress, no wounded maid, no heaving bosom! No, the miserable masquerade has been created by your husband’s toy! His telephone! There is a wire that comes to the room next to this, his library, and that wire catches on your shutter when it is closed, but not during the day when it is open, and from time to time it vibrates and the noise of that vibration is amplified by your wooden shutter until it frightens you near to death! But that is all it is. No soul in torment, just a wire and some wind...”

“Are you sure, Mr Holmes?” she asked, dumbfounded.

“Perfectly,” he said. “Now permit Watson and I to leave you in peace, but leave your shutter open for the night. Tomorrow we will get adjustments made to the telephone wire, and you will be able to sleep the innocent sleep you so richly deserve!”

And that was it. Mystery solved. Banshee banished. Peace restored.

© Peter Rogerson 12.08.17