himself, it still might be possible that I would see or hear something that might shed a little light on what was happening and hasten my friend’s release.
Carstairs was not at first pleased to see me when I presented myself in the hallway of his home with its elegant artworks and softly ticking clock. He had been about to leave for lunch and was meticulously dressed in a frock coat, grey satin cravat and well-varnished shoes. His top hat and walking stick were on a table by the door. ‘Dr Watson!’ he exclaimed. He turned to his wife. ‘I thought we had agreed that we would not be resorting to the services of Sherlock Holmes.’
‘I am not Holmes,’ I said.
‘Indeed not. I was just reading in the paper that Mr Holmes has fallen into the most disreputable circumstances.’
‘He did so in pursuit of the business that you brought to his door.’
‘A business that has now been concluded.’
‘He does not think so.’
‘I beg to disagree.’
‘Come, Edmund,’ Mrs Carstairs cut in. ‘Dr Watson has very kindly travelled with me all the way from London. He has agreed to see Eliza and give us the benefit of his opinion.’
‘Eliza has already been seen by several doctors.’
‘And one more opinion can’t hurt.’ She took his arm. ‘You have no idea what it’s been like for me these last few days. Please, my dear. Let him see her. It may help her, too, even if it’s only to have someone else to whom she can complain.’
Carstairs relented. He patted her hand. ‘Very well. But it won’t be possible for a while. My sister rose late this morning and I heard her drawing a bath. Elsie is with her now. It will be at least thirty minutes before she is presentable.’
‘I am quite happy to wait,’ I said. ‘But I will use the time, if I may, to examine the kitchen. If your sister persists in her belief that her food is being tampered with, it may prove useful to see where it is prepared.’
‘Of course, Dr Watson. And you must forgive my rudeness just now. I wish Mr Holmes well and I am glad to see you. It’s just that this nightmare never seems to stop. First Boston, then my poor mother, that business at the hotel, now Eliza. Only yesterday I acquired a gouache from the school of Rubens, a fine study of Moses at the Red Sea. But now I wonder if I am not afflicted by curses as fearsome as those experienced by the Pharaohs.’
We went downstairs and into a large, airy kitchen so filled with pots and pans, steaming cauldrons and chopping boards that it gave the impression of being busy even though there was very little activity in evidence. There were three people in the room. One of them I recognised. The manservant, Kirby, who had first admitted us to Ridgeway Hall was sitting at the table, buttering some bread for his lunch. A small, ginger-haired pudding of a woman was standing at the stove, stirring a soup, the aroma of which — beef and vegetables — filled the air. The third person was a slylooking young man, sitting in the corner, idly polishing the cutlery. Although Kirby had risen to his feet the moment we entered, I noticed that the young man remained where he was, glancing over his shoulder as if we were intruders who had no right to disturb him. He had long, yellow hair, a slightly feminine face, and must have been about eighteen or nineteen years old. I remembered Carstairs telling Holmes and I that Kirby’s wife had a nephew, Patrick, who worked below stairs and supposed this must be him.
Carstairs introduced me. ‘This is Dr Watson, who is trying to determine the cause of my sister’s illness. He may have some questions for you and I would be glad if you would answer them as candidly as you can.’
Although I had insinuated myself into the kitchen, I was actually unsure what to say but began with the cook who seemed the most approachable of the three. ‘You are Mrs Kirby?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you prepare all the food?’
‘Everything is prepared in this kitchen, sir, by me and by my husband. Patrick scrubs the potatoes and helps with the washing, when he can be so minded, but all the food passes through my hands and if there is anything poisoned in this house, Dr Watson, you won’t be finding it here. My kitchen is spotless, sir. We scrub it with carbolate of lime once a month. You can enter the pantry if you wish. Everything is in its place and there’s plenty of fresh air. We buy the food locally and nothing that’s not fresh comes through the door.’
‘It’s not the food that’s the cause of Miss Carstairs’s illness, begging your pardon, sir,’ muttered Kirby with a glance at the master of the house. ‘You and Mrs Carstairs have had nothing different to her and you’re both well.’
‘If you ask me, there’s something strange what’s come into this house,’ Mrs Kirby said.
‘What do you mean by that, Margaret?’ Mrs Carstairs demanded.
‘I don’t know, ma’am. I don’t mean anything by it. But we’re all worried to death on account of poor Miss Carstairs and it’s just as if somehow there’s something wrong about this place but whatever it is, my conscience is clear and I would pack my bags tomorrow and leave if anyone suggested otherwise.’
‘Nobody is blaming you, Mrs Kirby.’
‘But she’s right though. There is something wrong in this house.’ It was the kitchen boy, speaking for the first time and his accent reminded me that Carstairs had told us that he came from Ireland.
‘Your name is Patrick, is it not?’ I asked.
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘And where are you from?’
‘From Belfast, sir.’
It was surely a coincidence and nothing more but Rourke and Keelan O’Donaghue had also come from Belfast. ‘How long have you been here, Patrick?’ I asked.
‘Two years. I came here just before Mrs Carstairs.’ And the boy smirked as if at some private joke.
It was none of my business, but everything about his behaviour — the way he slouched on his stool and even the manner of his speech — struck me as purposefully disrespectful and I was surprised that Carstairs allowed him to get away with it. His wife was less tolerant.
‘How dare you speak to us like that, Patrick,’ she said. ‘If you’re insinuating something, you should say it. And if you’re unhappy here, you should leave.’
‘I like it well enough, Mrs Carstairs, and I wouldn’t say there was anywhere else I would want to go.’
‘Such insolence! Edmund, will you not speak to him?’
Carstairs hesitated, and in that brief pause there was a jangle and Kirby looked round at the row of servants’ bells on the far wall. ‘That’s Miss Carstairs, sir,’ he said.
‘She must have finished her bath,’ Carstairs said. ‘We can go up to her. Unless you have any more questions, Dr Watson?’
‘Not at all,’ I replied. The few questions I had asked had been futile and I was suddenly dispirited, for it had occurred to me that had Holmes been present, he would have probably have solved the entire mystery by now. What would he have made of the Irish serving boy and his relationship with the rest of them? And what would he have seen as his eyes swept across the room? ‘You see, Watson, but you do not observe.’ He had said it often enough and never had I felt it to be more true. The kitchen knife lying on the table, the soup bubbling on the hearth, the brace of pheasants hanging from a hook in the pantry, Kirby casting his eyes downwards, his wife standing with her hands on her apron, Patrick still smiling… would they have told him something more than they told me? Undoubtedly. Show Holmes a drop of water and he would deduce the existence of the Atlantic. Show it to me and I would look for a tap. That was the difference between us.
We went back upstairs and all the way to the top floor. As we climbed up, we passed a young girl, hurrying the other way with a bowl and two towels. This was Elsie, the scullery maid. She kept her head down and I saw nothing of her face. She brushed past us and was gone.
Carstairs knocked gently at the door, then entered his sister’s bedroom to see if she would receive a visit from me. I waited outside with Mrs Carstairs. ‘I will leave you here, Dr Watson,’ said she. ‘It will only distress my sister-in-law if I go in. But please let me know if there is anything that you notice that has a bearing on her illness.’
‘Of course.’
‘And thank you again for coming. I feel so relieved to have you as my friend.’
She swept away just as the door opened and Carstairs invited me in. I entered a close, plushly furnished bedroom built into the eaves with small windows, the curtains partly drawn and a fire burning in the grate. I
