always be welcome at Regal Lodge.”
And with that, the two of them made their exit center stage, through the French doors, to the tune of Lillie’s vivacious chatter.
Kate turned as if to leave. But instead of going to the door, she took two swift steps to the table beside the window where the man had been standing when she came into the drawing room. She opened the table drawer, put in her gloved hand, and drew something out. Quickly, she dropped it into her purse and closed the drawer.
She had just stolen Lillie Langtry’s silver-handled derringer.
And as an afterthought, she also scooped up the brandy snifter.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down.”
“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our our chase,” observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.
“You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said the police agent loftily. “He has his own little methods, which are, if he won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him.”
The Red-Headed League Arthur Conan Doyle
Newnham Grange was a late eighteenth-century house stuck all over with chimney pots and built on a branch of the River Cam about halfway between Foster’s Mill and the Newnham Mill, on the outskirts of Cambridge near the Silver Street Bridge. By a great coincidence, Charles had actually visited the house some time before, for it was the residence of George Darwin, the second son of the famous evolutionist Charles Darwin. George Darwin, professor of astronomy at Cambridge, was well-known in his own right, and his speculative interest in the movements of the moon and the tides happened to coincide with Lord Charles’s. After the publication the previous year of Professor Darwin’s book, The Tides and Kindred Phenomena of the Solar System, they had met several times to discuss these highly theoretical and rather fantastic topics, and Charles had once been asked to Newnham Grange to continue their conversation.
As Charles did not wish to make explanations to the Darwins (Mrs. Darwin was an American, a lovely woman but apt to make a fuss about things), he stopped the gig at Foster’s Mill and gave the horse into the care of a boy who worked there. After some discussion, he and Murray agreed that Murray would go to the Grange kitchen and try to find out from the cook whether she knew the whereabouts of her brother. Charles would wait on the nearby Silver Street Bridge.
Murray went on foot down the drive and around to the tradesman’s entrance. The kitchen door was opened by an aproned girl, and the odor of onions assaulted him. He snatched off his bowler hat. “Mrs. Thompson, please,” he said humbly.
The girl took in his green bow tie, checked tweed suit, and bowler hat. “I s’pose ye’re ’ere ’bout the oysters,” she said enigmatically.
“Actually, I-” Murray said.
“Ye’d better come in, then, and face up to it.” The girl opened the door. She turned and bawled, over her shoulder, “It’s a man ’bout them bad oysters, Miz Thompson.” She went into the scullery to carry on with the washing up, making a great show of banging the pots and pans.
Sally Thompson was a large woman with a round face and a cross expression. Her gray hair was curled like a large snail at the back of her neck, and her bulbous nose was red and covered with a spidery web of blood vessels. With a glower, she looked up from her work at the pine table, where she was elbow-deep in a tub of bread dough. The offending onions were cooking in a cast-iron fry pan on the coal range.
“I can’t take the respons’bility fer them oysters,” she said in a dark tone. “Ye’ll ’ave to talk to Mrs. Darwin. She wuz terr’ble upset, ’cause there was fourteen t’dinner, including Perfessor Kelvin, ’oo is partic’lar fond of oysters.” She gave him a knowing look. “I’m sure ye can guess wot ’appened after that.”
Murray preferred not to think about it. “I’m very sorry about the oysters, Mrs. Thompson,” he said contritely, “but that is not why I’ve come. I was sent by Mr. Thompson’s cousin Angus.” In the scullery, there was a lull in the banging of the pots.
Mrs. Thompson looked momentarily confused, as if she were having difficulty associating her dead husband’s cousin and the misadventure of the oysters. Then her expression cleared. “Oh, Angus,” she said, and turned a large lump of dough out of the tub onto the floury table. “ ’Ow is the old devil?”
“Oh, he’s quite well, thank you.” Murray added, inventively, “He asked to be remembered to you. With affection.”
Mrs. Thompson put her head on one side and smiled reminiscently, raising her voice over the sound of pot-washing, which had once again resumed. “Angus was allus me fav’rite on that side of the fam’ly.” She floured her hands and began to knead the dough with a vigorous push and pull. “Why’d ’e send ye?”
“He and I both are eager to get in touch with your brother,” Murray said. “It’s a matter of some importance, I’m afraid.”
“Eddie?” Mrs. Thompson’s eyes flickered. She frowned. “Wot’s ’e done now?”
“Oh, nothing,” Murray said hastily. “Nothing at all. But it is possible that he may have some information about an accident in Newmarket. Angus thought you might happen to know where he is.”
Mrs. Thompson kneaded more vigorously. “Are ye from the p’lice?”
“No, ma’am. As I said, your cousin sent me. He is as anxious as I am to be in touch with Eddie.”
“Well, it’s no good talkin’ to me,” Mrs. Thompson said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “Ye’re on a wild-goose chase.” Into another pause in the washing-up clatter, she added, “I ain’t seen Eddie since Boxing Day. ’E don’t come ’ere much. We ain’t been wot ye might call close since our poor dear mother died.”
“Oh, dear,” Murray said. “That really is too bad.” The scullery remained silent. “You’re sure you can’t give me some clue to his whereabouts? It’s awfully urgent, I’m afraid. A man’s life may depend on his information.” He paused. “I’d be glad to make it worth your while.”
Mrs. Thompson turned the pliant dough and pummeled it as though it were the truant Eddie. “I ain’t me brother’s keeper,” she snapped. “Off with ye now. If ye can’t ’elp with the oysters, ye’re no good to me.”
Murray turned, catching the flash of an apron at the scullery door. “If you hear of him,” he said, putting one of his cards on the table, “I can be reached at this address.”
For answer, Mrs. Thompson only assaulted the dough more energetically. Murray put on his hat and went to the door. “Thank you,” he said loudly. “I’ll be off now.”
He went out, leaving the door open a little behind him. Ten paces down the path, he stepped into the shrubbery and waited.
He didn’t have to wait long. Inside two or three minutes, the surly girl had joined him. He put his hand in his pocket and felt for a coin.
“Where is he?” he asked in a low voice.
The girl looked at the coin and gave a scornful grunt. “Thought ye said ’twas a man’s life.”
Murray added a second coin.
