The Affair of the Incognito Tenant

Chapter 1

The housekeeper must . . .bring, to the management of the household, all those qualities of honesty, industry and vigilance.

I stood at the door of Larchbanks on a fresh May morning in 1903, breathing in the soft wind that carried the fragrance of new grass from the Sussex Downs. The sound of a carriage turning in at the gate had drawn me from my work in the library. The village hackney from the train station drew up and stopped in front of me; Mr. William Bagshaw, my late employer’s solicitor, emerged from it. He took a moment to adjust his immaculate pin-striped morning coat and set his bowler hat more firmly on the pink scalp that showed beneath his thinning hair before turning to assist another man from the carriage.

His companion, however, needed no assistance. Though muffled in a scarf as if an invalid, he sprang nimbly from the carriage. His tall, well-knit figure was dressed conservatively in country tweeds; a deerstalker hat was pulled down to shade his eyes. The scarf hid all his features except for a high-bridged, hawklike nose.

Mr. Bagshaw had wired that morning to say he would bring a prospective tenant to view the house, and to name the train on which they would arrive. This was not the first tenant he’d found since Major Sir Arthur Fallowes’s death two months previously. But none of the others had come up to scratch.

What was left of the staff, consisting of myself, maids Violet and Rose Wilkins and Mrs. Clithoe, the cook, had been on board wages since the major’s death, until a suitable tenant could be found. By the terms of the major’s rather peculiar will, I was guaranteed employment for at least six months, and I had made it clear that my staff was also to be allowed that grace time. It was a comfort to feel there was no need to hurry in seeking another position; and if the price of that comfort was to put up with tenants while Mr. Bagshaw located the major’s niece, who would ultimately inherit Larchbanks, the price did not seem too high to pay.

Visits from prospective tenants had thus far been unproductive. We were, therefore, very interested in Mr. Bagshaw's present companion, and joined in hoping that he was a single, elderly gentleman of placid habit who would want little looking-after.

My dear Mrs. Dodson. Mr. Bagshaw greeted me, beaming, and pumped my hand warmly. I trust I see you in good health.

I was relieved that he had not brought Harold, his nephew and clerk. Though flattered by the deluge of badly written sonnets I had received over the course of the past few months since Harold had joined his uncle’s office in Littlehampton, I found it embarrassing to encounter the postmistress's knowing expression at their frequent arrival. I was seized with the desire to rap Harold's knuckles sharply and order him to write a paper on Aristotle's Poetics.

Certainly. I never ail. I freed my hand as soon as possible, drying it discreetly on the folds of my black stuff gown. Violet and Rose had but two days earlier offered to ask their mother to create something more modish and becoming, because you look like a crow in that black, Mrs. D, truly you do. Touched by their offer, I had still refused. One of the prospective tenants, Mrs. Rutherford, had certainly not thought my gown too dowdy; I had heard her mutter, Flighty thing! when she turned away after questioning the arrangement of my plaits. In this new century, it begins to be outmoded to speak of one's place in the world, but I had discovered that a lady in reduced circumstances who takes up a post as housekeeper becomes somewhat less than a lady in the eyes of others, and I will not claim a status in life that is no longer my own.

This is Mr. Sigerson, Mr. Bagshaw said, introducing his companion. Mrs. Charlotte Dodson, the late major's housekeeper. Shall we go in?

In the hall, I relieved the gentlemen of their hats and gloves, and that engulfing scarf. Far from being elderly, Mr. Sigerson looked no more than five-and-forty. His black hair showed little grey, brushed straight back from a broad forehead. The short beard he wore rather marred, in my opinion, a face that could otherwise have been called handsome, though a physiognomist might have read arrogance and coldness in the high arch of the eyebrows and the set of the thin lips.

Would you care for some refreshment after your journey? I indicated the dining room, where decanters were set out on the sideboard.

No, no, Mr. Bagshaw said. The journey from Littlehampton is not onerous. I believe Mr. Sigerson would prefer to see over the house, and as you are the fittest to show it, Mrs. Dodson, would you lead the way?

I ushered the two men into the drawing room. It was more of a parlour in size, with a beamed ceiling and diamond-paned casements that shone from Violet's vigorous application of vinegar-and-water. Although the furniture was not new, it was comfortable and well polished. I had filled a stone jar with snowdrops and placed it on the window-seat; the effect of morning sunshine on their petals was very pleasant.

Mr. Sigerson appeared bored. After a cursory glance around the room, he sniffed, Charming, and turned on his heel.

Mr. Bagshaw bustled after him. Though he gave lip-service to my knowledge of Larchbanks, Mr. Bagshaw had no intention of actually allowing me to do the honours. He was fond of the house himself, and dogged Mr. Sigerson's heels up the staircase. He burst into speech before we had arrived at the first floor.

Observe the original oak wainscoting, he pointed out to Mr. Sigerson. The house dates from the Queen Anne period, of course.

Does it? Mr. Sigerson's voice was languid, and I wondered if the scarf had indicated convalescence from some illness.

Rumour has it, Mr. Bagshaw continued, with rather less enthusiasm in the face of such indifference, that there are hidden compartments about Larchbanks—priests' holes and all that.

Indeed? Mr. Sigerson's languor vanished. He raised his head, his hooded eyes sharpening as he glanced up and down the corridor in which we stood, a paneled space running the length of the upstairs. Let us see the bedrooms.

In rapid order he was through the bedchambers, paying little attention to the furnishings, though he gave a grunt of approval when Mr. Bagshaw pointed out the modern conveniences Major Fallowes had been at such pains to install.

Back in the corridor, Mr. Sigerson sunk his head on his breast, paced quickly between two of the bedchamber doors, scrutinised the carved rosettes that surmounted the wainscoting, and walked away, giving as he went a seemingly negligent twist to one rosette.

A length of the wainscoting flapped open like an emaciated door.

Mr. Bagshaw gasped. Why, I never knew that was there. Did you, Mrs. Dodson?

I looked thoughtfully at Mr. Sigerson. Yes, Mr. Bagshaw, I murmured. My son discovered it on his last holiday.

A child lives in the house? Mr. Sigerson whipped around, his expression one of distinct foreboding that seemed out of proportion to the notion of being subjected to a child. His was an attitude that bespoke little experience with those of tender years—or perhaps, experience of a particularly horrid kind.

My son is away at school most of the year, I said. He spends little time here.

Mr. Sigerson turned to Mr. Bagshaw. This will not do, he said sternly. I specified the minimum of staff and no children. When will the lad next take up residence? The last was to me, accompanied by a piercing stare.

Not until August. My gaze sought Mr. Bagshaw's, puzzled as to this stipulation. It is true that Stubby—or Maxwell Sturges Dodson—was, at eleven, rather loud and awkward. But Larchbanks, placed in its own grounds, had abundance of occupation for an active lad, and young Max had never seemed to bother dear old Major Fallowes.

Mr. Sigerson's face relaxed somewhat. Is this the only priest's hole?

His conversation jumped, as Mrs. Clithoe would say, like a drop of water on a hot griddle. There is another, smaller one downstairs, more like a kitchen cupboard, I answered, my outward demeanor not, I hoped, indicative of my inner thoughts. Those are all Stubby—Max—could find.

No way in from outside?

None that I know of.

He turned away. Very well. Is there more to see up here?

I suppose not. Mr. Bagshaw sounded a bit crestfallen. I led the way down the stairs.

The house is available on a six-month lease? Mr. Sigerson put the question to Mr. Bagshaw as we entered the library.

And very fortunate for you, Mr. Sigerson, since you do not require a permanent residence. Mr. Bagshaw clapped his captive on the back, a familiarity Mr. Sigerson endured without comment. Yes, my late client's niece will inherit, and while we attempt to locate her in the mission field, the house is to be let, furnished, for the six-month term. He pulled a long face. I advised Major Fallowes to simply sell up and present Mrs. Staines, when located, with the money, but he thought she'd prefer to make that decision herself.

And have you found any signs of her? Mr. Sigerson wandered into the room, browsing along one wall of books. He stopped in front of the carved oak Bible stand, fingering its extravagant design.

I stood in the doorway, subduing my emotions. Unlike the odious Mrs. Rutherford, Mr. Sigerson did not give the library a cursory glance and walk away. He went behind the desk to try out the major’s chair. It was plain that he fancied the library as his future workroom.

I found I did not like to see a stranger pacing through the room, weighing it for possible occupation. I had spent so many hours there, working with the major on his memoirs. It was for that reason that he had left me the contents of the library in his will, to be disbursed within six months, or after his niece was found, whichever occurred first.

I fear not. Mr. Bagshaw pursed his lips over the fate of Patience Staines, the major's niece. She was in China just prior to the Boxer Rebellion. I am much afraid . . . He paused delicately.

I gazed at the desk and the Bible stand Mr. Sigerson flicked carelessly with one long finger, at all the woodwork, and made a mental note. Although I knew Violet had dutifully cleaned everything, the wood did not glow with its usual soft patina. I would have to speak to her about it.

Exactly. Mr. Sigerson swung around. This room, I suppose, is adequate.

I had difficulty schooling my expression into the proper impassivity on hearing this slighting remark. Even Mr. Bagshaw's beaming smile faltered.

It is small, to be sure, he said doubtfully. The house itself is not particularly large, but as you are a single gentleman . . .

Mr. Sigerson paid no attention to this implied question, but I answered it to myself. Such a man would not be married; his aloofness was all but palpable.

I am more interested in the grounds at this moment, he announced. How extensive is the orchard? Are the fences and walls in good repair?

We shall take a look, Mr. Bagshaw said, restored by this evidence that his potential tenant had not totally given up the notion of leasing Larchbanks. Allow me to escort you. He led Mr. Sigerson into the hall, and out the front door. I watched them take the gravel path that led around the house. The grounds had been let go, but there was still a pleasant walk beneath the wistaria arbour and through the kitchen garden.

For a few moments I lingered at the door, enjoying the freshness of the spring morning, the new green of the trees that edged the lawn and screened the lane from sight. A gap at the foot of the lawn allowed a distant view of the soft green downs. The air was so clear, I fancied I caught a glint from the sea, and certainly its tang was detectable in the breeze that blew against my face.

I could not stop long, however. We had been up before the dawn to prepare for Mr. Bagshaw’s visit. All the holland covers had been taken off the furniture in parlour and library, the carpets swept with tea leaves, and the rooms thoroughly aired before his arrival. Even so, while showing Mr. Sigerson the house, I had noticed things that needed attention—an overlooked cobweb in the corridor, an undusted table in one of the bedchambers, a smell of damp in the bath-room. Board wages or no, my responsibility was to see that Larchbanks was maintained suitably.

I shut the front door and returned to my tasks.

Chapter 2

All these employments [of the housekeeper] call for no ordinary degree of care, taste, and attention.

In the kitchen, the maids sat at the scrubbed deal table near the range. Violet read the newspaper to her sister, Rose, who polished the teapot industriously. Mrs. Clithoe could be heard rooting around in the larder, her muffled grunts interspersed with rustling noises.

It will never do, Violet.

Violet looked up at me from her newspaper, startled and defensive. What do you mean, Mrs. Dodson?

I mean that you must stop seeing that young fellow who travels in household goods. Or, if you must see him, please do not allow him to press his inferior products on you. The woodwork in the library looks positively dull.

Violet had the grace to blush. I never thought you'd notice, she said, tossing her head. And he did say it would make the grain of the wood come up beautiful.

He was wrong.

Mrs. Clithoe came into the kitchen, hardly bowed at all by the fifty-pound bag of flour she carried on her shoulder. Mouse droppings, she said darkly.

Oh, dear. Where?

On the larder floor, bold as brass. Still balancing the flour, Mrs. Clithoe opened the bin beneath the pastry table and poured flour into it. The long ribbons on her cap waggled like agitated fingers, but Mrs. Clithoe was not even breathing hard; her massive frame was capable of greater exertion than hefting a mere fifty pounds. A vaporous white cloud rose around her, sending the maids to coughing. Didn’t get into the bread crock, but not for want of trying. Violet, do you go fetch the rat poison from the garden shed.

Fair gives me the creeps, it does, Violet muttered, but she ran out the back door.

Mrs. Clithoe shut the bin and used a handkerchief to dust her floury face. What sort of gentleman did that Mr. Bagshaw bring, then? She turned to the range, giving a stir to a pot that sent out savoury aromas. Someone with a stomach to him, I hope. That Mr. Bagshaw is no better than a heathen, with his nasty weak digestion.

He cannot help being subject to dyspepsia, I said, trying to avoid a wrangle on this subject. Rose, the teapot looks beautiful.

Rose smiled with pleasure. The Wilkins girls were very good workers in their way, but prone to distraction. Rose, for instance, read signs and portents in everything. Violet had a taste for masculine admiration.

A weak stomach is the sign of the Evil One. Mrs. Clithoe’s implacable tone left no room for argument. Rose and I exchanged glances, and she rushed into speech.

Is he a married man? The new tenant?

He appears to be single. I had seen no ring on his finger, though not all married men wore them. And it is by no means certain that he will take the house.

Violet came back in, carrying the tin of arsenic between thumb and forefinger, her face screwed into an expression of distaste. Nasty, she said, handing the tin to Mrs. Clithoe and making a production of wiping her fingers with her handkerchief. Mind you don’t go putting that in the sugar bowl. She and Rose dissolved into laughter.

I’m not likely to make such a mistake, Mrs. Clithoe said, withering them with a glance. It’s only the dratted vermin will be eating this. She vanished into the larder again. I moved to the door, watching as she filled the little china dish she kept for the purpose and set it on the stone floor near the bread crock. They’ll be in the pickle barrel next, she muttered, and then I’d have to throw out all my pickles, and that would go hard with me.

I saw Mr. Bagshaw in the orchard with another gentleman, Violet announced behind me. He was very tall. The other gentleman, I mean. Mr. Bagshaw isn’t so much of a muchness. She and Rose laughed again.

Girls, it is not seemly of you to make such remarks about Mr. Bagshaw. He is in the place of master here, and should be respected accordingly.

Yes, Mrs. Dodson, they chorused, grinning at each other.

Mrs. Clithoe came out of the larder and drew some water from the stove’s reservoir into one of the stoneware jugs. She filled the washbasin on the stand beside the kitchen door, dug into the crock of soft-soap, and worked up a lather, rinsing her hands and throwing the contents of the basin out the back door. Violet, come wash your hands, she commanded. We’re perticular about that at Larchbanks.

Yes, indeed. I knew the Wilkins girls thought that both Mrs. Clithoe and I were a bit too rigid in the matter of hand washing, but Mrs. Clithoe had a good cook’s aversion to dirt, and I had read Lister’s work on germs.

Well, Violet said, flouncing up from the table, I hope the gentleman does take the house. At least we'll be shut of board wages. She washed her hands and examined her pretty face minutely in the small looking glass that hung above the washstand. I should have gone to London when I wanted to, after the major left me my legacy.

Ma did right by your money and mine, Rose said earnestly. A girl never knows when she might need a nest egg.

It was Violet's artless desire to become a music hall star, using the small legacy left to her by Major Fallowes as capital. She had tried to persuade Rose to accompany her, but Rose, though younger, was far stodgier than her flighty sister.

I'm glad we didn't go, she averred now. Vicar says London's a kennel of iniquity. Do you bide here, Violet, and say your catechism like a good girl.

Mrs. Clithoe nodded approbation. Save your money for your old age, dearie, same as I've been doing. You never know when you'll need it. There's my old dad, now, snug as can be in his little cottage—

If the major hadn't given it to him, he wouldn't have it, would he? Violet demanded.

Mrs. Clithoe paid no heed. Wants for nothing, does my old dad. What I say is, that's as much as a body can expect in this world.

Violet sniffed at such mild views. It's like being buried alive, living in this place all your life. She picked up the newspaper again. Things is happening in London, she said wistfully. See here? 'Wild Beast Eludes Capture, Mauls Three!' 'Prominent MP Admits to Opium Habit!' 'Famous Sleuth Threatened by Escaped Arch-Criminal!' Think of that! Just outside your window, in London. She let the newspaper drop.

It don't bear thinking on, Mrs. Clithoe protested. Don't be daft, girl. Suppose that there Arch-Criminal was outside your window. You'd be wishing you was back here safe and sound, you would!

Rose spelled out the words in the paper slowly. She had made less progress in her reading lessons than Violet. Mrs. Hodges, the schoolmistress, did not worry overmuch about instilling learning in her scholars' heads, though she was quick enough at picking up nuggets of gossip herself. The Wilkins girls had been barely literate when I began keeping house at Larchbanks three years previously. I felt a definite sense of satisfaction as Rose read from the paper.

‘Colonel Sebastian Moran, missing since Friday last from the high-security prison at Dartmoor, has sent a comm-u-neek’—is that right, Mrs. Dodson?

I moved to stand behind her so I could read over her shoulder. Communiqué, I said, pronouncing it correctly. You are reading quite well these days, Rose.

She smiled with pleasure and read on. ‘. . . to this journal, declaring that he will not rest until he has recked—’

Wreaked.

‘—revenge on Mr. Sherlock Holmes, late of Baker Street in this city, now retired from the London scene.’ She rustled the paper triumphantly. See there, Violet? Even that Mr. Sherlock Holmes didn't want to stay in London no more.

I read the rest of the article to myself while Rose laboured through it.

The famous consulting detective, who has solved many of the pre-eminent puzzles of our times, was instrumental in obtaining the arrest and conviction of Col. Moran in conjunction with the Adair case, which was chronicled by his friend and associate, Dr. John Watson, as 'The Adventure of the Empty House.' For the past two years Mr. Holmes has made his home in Sussex. Scotland Yard has offered protection against the threat to his life.

Violet looked sulky. Well, he's old, she argued. He must be forty or fifty if he's a day. London is different when you're young.

Rose had wandered on through the paper. There's goings-on in Sussex, she declared. Right here in the London paper they talk about it. 'Vampire Stalks Quiet Village.' She read on and raised saucer-like eyes to me. That be over in Cowfold, not twenty mile from here!

Nonsense, Rose. I took the newspaper and put it in the kindling basket. Vampires do not exist. The presses merely wish to sell papers to credulous readers.

Mrs. Clithoe was unmoved by anything to be found in the newspaper. What might be the gentleman's name who's taking the house?

Mr. Sigerson, I said. He may not take up the lease. He has merely expressed interest to Mr. Bagshaw.

Violet turned dreamy. I'd like to lease a big house like this for myself, she said, staring into the fire. And you, too, Rosie.

Then we could have servants. Fancy! said Rose, giggling. That would be something like. She lifted her little finger and poured imaginary tea from the silver pot. Another lump, Miss Hanover?

That's just what you'd get from her, Violet agreed.

It is hardly fitting of you to speak so of the vicar's sister, I said, trying to bite back a smile. Miss Hanover's strong but disagreeable character was impossible to escape in the village. Let us have more work and less gossip, girls, if you please.

Yes, Mrs. Dodson, they chorused again, winking at each other. As soon as I left, I knew they would be casting aspersions freely on the vicar's sister and her bosom friend, Mrs. Hodges.

Mrs. Clithoe did not gossip. But she made pronouncements. Vicar, she pronounced now, should do something about that Squire Rutledge. Young Mary Beedle is off to Parish Hospital in Portsmouth.

The girls stared at each other, and I frowned at Mrs. Clithoe. This subject is not proper for our girls to hear.

Nay, Mrs. Clithoe insisted stubbornly.