VIII. MR. JABEZ STAMFORD
Math is like a mystery.
Where there are proofs, there are cases. Where there are given statements, there are clues. Where there are theorems, there is logic. And when there are answers, there is the end.
Yet, math and mysteries are meant to be deduced.
“How is Sheridan,” Stamford asked. “I heard the bad news last night from Scottland Yard.”
I stared at the road after already insisting Stamford that I should drive us to Milverton’s home. We were already towards the outskirts of London, close to Hampstead. Stamford was wearing he same clothes as yesterday, a habit occasionally repeated when it came to favourite clothes.
“Recovering.”
“That’s very good news. My god, any more blows from that evil bloke and I would definitely rush him up to the hospital. He’s mindful of education alright, but he’s not mindful of his own health. It’s also good of you that you’re representing Sheridan.”
“I’m not representing him. I just want to damn the one who did all these ‘Rache’ killings.” I said narrowly. “Whoever is doing this…It’s cruel. I don’t like it.”
“I don’t like it either. But we’re getting close. Even Holmes flat could provide a clue. But now that you cleaned it out…”
“Stamford, it was the setting of vandalism, mot murder. If I found a body—”
“The vandalism relates to murder, and those robberies. But be thankful I didn’t tell Scotland Yard about it. Not only we’ll be put in the slammer, they’ll be celebrating. By the way,” Stamford leaned forward, “did you get enough sleep last night there?”
“Not much, but I’m awake now. The rooms were interesting. A lot of the furniture were antique. He’s not a collector of some sort, is he?”
“Family inherited. Sooner or later, sadly, he’ll be forced to get rid of them somehow.”
“His sister’s room didn’t seem that antique,” I said.
Stamford faced me with astonishment. “How did you know he used to have a sibling? He’s very secretive when it comes about his family.”
“I saw his photos hanging around his house.”
“But did you went through his house? Did he let you?”
“Of course he wouldn’t let me go looking around his house. Even I wouldn’t let people see what I looked like when I was a teenager. I looked like a berk.”
“But Sheridan has pictures of generations of families and you only have one or two generations. That’s what it is.”
“Thank you for reminding me about my ‘family’,” I narrowly uttered.
Stamford turned apologetic. “Sorry about that Rachel. But the pictures. How did you come to that conclusion?”
“I noticed there were a lot of pictures on the walls of the bedroom with all of the same family and family members, especially of the teenager since she was a baby, which means, she’s probably grown up all her life with Holmes. And what other kind of family member this young can live with that close to Holmes but a sister? Besides if he had a small family tree now, it wouldn’t of been some second cousin.”
Stamford eyed me with admiration. “You’re the second greatest person I’ve known who’s good at deducing.”
I looked at him. “Second greatest?”
“Actually, you’re the first greatest person I’ve known who’s good at math, but Sheridan’s the first at deducing.”
“At deducing?”
“Yes. That’s right. For example…uhh…I remember I saw him at Scotland Yard a week ago. Scotland Yard loathes him very much, but it was quite early in the morning that he came, and I was also quite surprising no one offered to bite his head or kick him out. I think it was because of Ford.”
“Who’s Ford?”
“The one who…who looks almost like Holmes…except he looks like a ferret. He’s around a lot. Anyway, it was possible Ford stopped him from coming in, because the next thing Holmes did was have him in his mercy. He deduced that Ford was cheating on his wife.”
I looked at Stamford, incredulous. “He knows what kind of sins we’ve actually done?”
Stamford shrugged. “Not quite. He just figures it out like you do on a math problem. He focuses more on people’s hands since that’s what we use the most in our live. Anyway, he first deduced thatthe shoes he was wearing had gray dust on it, meaning he passed by Montague Street where that area is under construction. He had some paint marks on his fingertips, some of different colors, showing he was an artist, a painter to be exact and the part about cheating on his wife, he noticed a small, circular mark on his finger, an indentation from a ring. By looking at the ring mark on his finger, he figured it must been a wedding ring since a wedding ring is the most common kind of ring worn by men. There was a possibility that he could left it at home, have it stolen, or lost it, however, by mentioning the kind of ring to him, Ford somewhat went a little nervous and confessed that he just left it at home. But a man can’t be that nervous of leaving his ring at home, unless he had lost it. And besides, the indentation from the ring had shown he had recently worn it a few minutes ago and taken it off. Other than the idea of the ring giving a slight discomfort, he was hiding it. And what other purpose of hiding it other than hiding it from another woman he loves.”
“About what Gregson said the day before yesterday,” I interrupted. “That Holmes’ doesn’t like women?”
“Nah. Gregson exaggerates. Sheridan’s tolerant of women alright, but when it comes to relationships, he figures it’s something that pulls him away from his true business in life. In a way, you and him are almost the same, always into education, except you have different minds. While he tries to work on the same thing, getting it better and better, while you try to explore something new. When he starts something, he always finishes it, never leaving anything completed, unlike you or me, who leaves things out when we’re tired of it.”
“Are you trying to compare me to him?”
“Not to offend you, but yes, I am. I guess it’s the only way I’ll be able to explain about his personality to you. You’re not being offended, are you?”
I shook my head.
“That’s good. Gee! Whenever we talk about somebody rather than something, this car seems to go a little faster. Now.. what was I going to say—oh! Yes! I forgot. When you want to do something new, you do it because you have the desire to do it, but most of the time, you can’t because you don’t have the money or the time to do it. On the other hand, Sheridan’s pretty ignorant of doing something new unless he has a good reason to do it, and yet—”
“And yet,” I finished Stanford’s point in a cold tone, “He has all the time and money to do it.”
“Yes, but now he’s got his head on a sling with his financial problems.”
Good for him, I said to myself.
We reached an estate, a large house with a large lawn entrapped by walls of metal and brick. The place was familiar to my memory: the home of Sir Milverton’s sister who met her fate. Past the gates, a long driveway winded past several trees and towards the house, two stories tall, and possibly a third one which acted like an attic of some sort. Yet, the most astonishing sight was that Lestrade stood at the steps of the home.
“Good Mornin’ Rachel, good morning Stamford.” Strangely, he looked quite happy.
“Good morning. How did you know we were heading here? We were just talking about Sheridan and how shrewd he is in his ways.”
Lestrade made his grin a little more sinister.
“Oh, I can assure you that your talk will be proven wrong. He’s not shrewd anymore. He’s screwed. The amateur was arrested a couple of hours ago.”
“What?”
“Oh! That’s right. Come in and I’ll explain to you everything.”
We went inside, with Gloria Scott, the maid, tidying out the house. She gave us a worried look, knowing that there was no more hope in eliminating Sir Milverton’s frightful habit. I acknowledge her with a concerning look as I headed into the living room. Lestrade instructed Stamford to come with him and as I was left alone, Ms. Scott quietly stepped into the living room and eagerly knelt by me.
“He’s not coming, is he?”
I shook my head, apologizing. “It’s something I can’t answer Ms. Scott.”
She bowed her head, all hope lost.
“Unfortunately, I’m taking his place.”
“You’re his associate.”
“Temporarily—yes.”
The maid smiled, her spirits brightening.
“I have another question. This house. Why did Sir Milverton move in here?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps his money was running low, but even I’m not sure.”
“And he rebuilt it instead of moving somewhere else?”
“Yes. Strangely, the house was still standing up and tall by the time they put out the fire.”
“But why?”
“That’s why I came to you earlier in the day. I thought it might have a connection what he’s doing.”
Stamford returned into the living room. “Rachel, It’s true. According to what Lestrade says He’s screwed for sure. I’m sorry.”
I left themaid in a polite manner. Stamford led me out the living room and down a hall, explaining.
“He’s at Scottland Yard now, arrested on charges of robbery and murder”
“The murder of who?”
“The murder of Jonathan Smalls as well as your father’s.”
“But I don’t understand. I don’t think a man such as him can pull it off.”
“Me too. But I’m afraid it’s so. He has a very good motive why he’s doing these. It’s clear he has financial problems and that he is afraid to abandon his flat at Baker Street. If he’s really this devoted to preserving his home, what could he do? Robbery is perhaps the easiest way to do it. And his previous service to Sir Milverton has given the possibility why he murdered Jonathan Smalls. He stole one of his codes which Jonathan had no intention of using, just for fun, and when he found Jonathan smalls released, he became a threat since he could interpret those dancing people.”
We entered the study where Lestrade handed Stamford the telephone already connected to Scotland yard, guarding us with a slight smirk and a suspicion on us. Stamford exchanged a few words with Holmes on the other line, and handed the receiver to me. Unsure, I took it anyway and when I heard the words “Ms Hughes? Hello?”, I quickly hung up the phone.
The two detectives looked at me, soundless and incredulous.
Perhaps I was frightened, shocked or upset at the news although I was quite calm. This piercing news, bottled up in me that it was possible I could break up into something emotional. Yet years of hardness seemed to make that bottle stronger, unable to let it go and be forgotten.
“What on earth did you bloody do that for?”
I gazed at them with a dazed look. “I don’t know,” I said quietly. “I just—just—”
“Felt like it,” Stamford concluded.
I nodded. Then, I mentioned without any consciousness, “If you just excuse me for a while gentlemen, I’ll just sit and think a bit. The news of this is somewhat sudden.”
“Sit where?”
“Oh, outside,” I said, and I left the room.
It was hours after I went out into the cold, gazing at the sky until it became this glowing, mellow evening in the middle of winter. Several flakes of snow drifted past as I sat on the steps, my thoughts wandering aimlessly.
I had remembered about that tape recorder in my bag, but was too tense to play it. I was afraid, to think what really happened to my stepfather at Scottland yard. Then again, I was too furious to wonder who would do such a thing to him.
I pulled out the recorder and held it in my hands, it’s cold silver casing against the skin of my palms. I stood still, thinking it over if I was brave enough to do this. I looked at the sky: the sun at the west; the crescent moon at the east; and the drifting hazy clouds from the north, coming closer each minute. Seeing the light mellow under the cool sky, some sense of warmth that things were okay, that there was someone or something out there who was watching me, I found a bit of courage to unconsciously press ‘play’.
“Mr. Hughes?”
Pause.
“Mr. Hughes?”
Pause.
“Mr. Hughes, it would be grateful of you if I could have a moment of your time.”
“I said it ten times already. I don’t know who Colonel Moran is. I’ve told you everything.”
“Scotland Yard has an impression that Colonel Moran is a creation of your own words for your to blame at.”
No response.
“I don’t mean to say that I don’t believe you. Further more, I’m quite unsure what Scotland Yard says is true.”
No response.
“Mr. Hughes, your daughter—”
“My daughter! What did you do to her? Where is she? Is she here?”
“She is.”
“She’s innocent I tell you. She has nothing to do with this. God forbid, if anything harms her—”
“She’s fine. She’s quite shaken about your testimony and your actions, but she also has questions she wants me to ask you though. We found—”
“We?”
“Your daughter, a Scotland yard detective, and I—we found the same ‘rache’ painted on the walls of your own basement.”
“The word ‘Rache’—in my own basement?”
“You didn’t paint that?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“But the tunnels that linked to your basement—”
“I knew about that. but that word ‘Rache’—never!”
“Did you have any knowledge that those tunnels are linked to this very building as well?”
“No.”
“Then is it a possibility that the Colonel Moran in question could have done this?”
No response.
“Sir?”
“There was a possibility since it was his idea, but I don’t think I see a reason why he would do that unless it concerned in threatening his hobby of jewelry robberies.”
“Then do you know anyone who might be doing this? Someone who in the past who has posed a threat against you?”
No reply.
“What about her mother? Does she know about anyone who might do—”
“Her mother’s dead.”
A pause—a cold one.
“I’m sorry.”
Another pause before responding.
“Mr. Holmes, are you very sure you’ll keep your word that no one is to know about what I will say to you?”
“I’m not a boastful person, but you’re very assured that I’ll keep my word.”
Another pause. Then he spoke in a strong, grave tone.
“Her mother was murdered by her own family many years ago, a year after we were married. Rachel was just ten when that happened and I never spoke to her about it, hoping that I wouldn’t scare her with the truth. Her mother was murdered because she abandoned that family—a bunch of vile criminals, all of them. Thank god, many of them are in the gaol, but there’s a few of them out there, one or two, probably the young ones, ready to strike.”
“How did she die?”
“Poison. The constable thinks it was suicide, but how could she leave us? She was the greatest wife in the whole world, the greatest mother in the whole universe, even before I married her. When rachel was a child, she brought her around places. America, Australia, Asia, the continent. And every day when she was alive, she’d call me her prince and she’d call Rachel—Queen Irene.”
“Irene?”
“I don’t know why she calls her that. Perhaps that’s her middle name.”
“An interesting name.”
“A lovely one too. But she’s gone now. I don’t hear that name anymore. Even I don’t have the heart to call her that. But that’s not it. Rachel’s got a lust for thrill. She’s a Queen no longer. She’s an adventuress.”
A pause. Strangely, those last words had a clear, magical effect.
“And that’s when you started becoming over protective of her?”
“Not overprotective—scared to death for her safety. Six, seven times—god knows how many times we went around England to get away from them—”
“Her mother’s family…”
“And every time it seems so safe, I would get threats from them by the mail. Rachel got furious, wondering why we can’t stay in one place, I got scared more and more…(Sigh)…I didn’t want to frighten her that we were being in danger. I didn’t want her to feel unhappy, and even if I didn’t tell her, she would still be unhappy. She’s grown impatient now, devouring anything in her mind that I could offer her, all those books and schoolwork…and now she’s a beautiful woman—”
“You had another obstacle there and decided to create Hosmer Angel, a person who’s disappearance would automatically create a constant sense of caution in your daughter that would reduce a risk of her being so vulnerable from the ones who have stalked her.”
A low, quiet reply: “yes.”
A pause, then.
“God, no matter how hard I try, I am truly a terrible father.”
“No. For a person who’s proven quite a lot of concern over his child, even if she’s not of his blood is the most loyal of all acts. You’ve raised a talented daughter and you should be proud of that.”
I stopped the tape.
“Rachel? Are you okay?”
Stamford stood behind me.
“I’m fine,” I replied, not daring to look at him.
“It’s cold out here. Did you want to come in?”
“No thank you.”