Chapter 3
The Maid’s Tale
“Please enter,” Holmes called, his eyes aglow with keen anticipation of the possible challenge to be presented. The door edged open and a woman in her mid-thirties half entered. Seeing the figure of my colleague silhouetted against the now brightly lit window, she inquired, “Mr. Holmes?”
“Quite correct, Miss…?”
“Henley. Emma Henley.”
“And the gentleman in the chair is my colleague, Doctor Watson.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You know Watson, then?”
“I don’t know him, sir. I know of him, don’t I now, he being the one who writes the stories.”
‘‘Yes, he is becoming quite the literary figure. Now, won’t you please have a seat?” He motioned her to the empty wingback. “How long have you been back?” asked Holmes.
“About a month now. But … but how did you know I had been away?”
“It is my job to know these things, or at least to deduce such facts. I had already reasoned that you were a wife of a military man, or a servant, by your knock; but now I see that in fact, you are a servant to a military man.”
“But how?” gasped Miss Henley.
“Your nails are short and your hands show a familiarity with manual labor. That says working class—in your case, a maid. More precisely, a lady’s maid. You served the wife of a military officer—a woman who was kind and caring.”
Miss Henley looked at me in amazement, then at Holmes. “You are correct, sir. My mistress was a generous soul. But how could you know?”
“By your accent, or should I say your lack of accent. I dare say you were in service at an early age and are not formally educated.” The woman nodded. Homes continued with good humor in his voice, “Yet you are obviously well read, since you know Doctor Watson’s work. And your speech betrays next to nothing of your background. Only a kind and caring mistress would take time to help her maid refine herself in such a manner.”
“My mistress loved literature. We would often read to each other—mostly the great poems—but she devoured every adventure of yours she could lay her hands upon. But how did you know she was the wife of an… Oh!” Her hand rose to caress a small pin on her collar.
“Quite right, Miss Henley,” Holmes said in a congratulatory tone. “The pin indicates you served in the household of an officer with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers who, until recently, were stationed in India. Perhaps you do know my friend, who himself was with the Fifth during the Afghan wars.”
“That was more than a few years ago, Holmes,” I reminded Holmes.
“Quite right, Watson. Quite right. Now of what service can I be to you, madam?”
“It is an outrage, sir—an outrage concerning officers of our regiment: Colonel Quitnar and his cousin, Lieutenant Lanticole, whose household I used to serve.”
Sunlight filled the room, brightly illuminating Emma Henley as she spoke. “It is a strange affair that I blame on Lieutenant Lanticole’s vain nature. You see, Mem Lanticole loved her husband dearly. She was a proper lady, keeping at home and staying to herself when her husband was away on duty. The Lieutenant built this fact into some godly virtue. He so immodestly boasted of my lady’s love and fidelity to the other officers that an aura of idolatry built up around her. For beauty, my mistress was no Helen, but her vaunted virtue made her a legend among the men, kindling distorted, foul, lusting emotions. It was like the mystique of the unconquered mountain—the mystique lures men to the assault.
“About two months ago, during the regiment’s final patrol before their return, Colonel Quitnar appeared at our door. My mistress swooned at his sight for fear of dreadful news of her husband’s fate; but he assured her of the Lieutenant’s good health. It was near dusk, so Mem Lanticole offered food and lodging for the night to her husband’s cousin, who had oft been a guest in the house.
“I was dismissed around ten, but I could hear the Colonel talking to my mistress almost ‘til I heard him pass my door, going to the guest room, which was in that wing of the house.”
“What time was that?” Holmes asked.
“About one, I believe. Yes, I’m sure it was a few minutes past one. All was silent for a time, but I was awakened from a shallow sleep by the muffled sound of someone speaking in the next room—Colonel Quitnar’s room. It sounded like he was arguing with himself—aloud to himself, you understand. It was most peculiar and quite disturbing. I lay there trying to go back to sleep, but the incessant mumblings kept me on the edge of consciousness. Then he stopped talking. Just like that! I sat bolt upright at the sudden silence, straining to hear—to understand what was happening. I heard some movement in the Colonel’s room, then, a minute later, I noticed a light shining under my door. It was moving toward the central area of the house. After a short time, I lay back down and I drifted into an uneasy sleep. I never heard the Colonel return. I awoke early, as is my custom, got dressed, and left my room to set about my duties.
“I glanced down the hall and I noticed the guest room door stood open. ’Colonel? Colonel Quitnar? Do you need anything?’ I asked as I approached the door. Something was not right. ‘Colonel Quitnar?’ I asked once more as I knocked before looking into the room. When I stepped into the doorway, I was amazed to find Colonel Quitnar had already departed. And then…” She gasped as her hand rose to her mouth and her eyes glistened with tears.
“After seeing the Colonel was gone, I immediately went to my lady’s room. I found her standing there, staring at the bed, in a sort of trance. The movement of my entering the room caught her attention and she turned to me… and…” She paused as if horrified by what was to come.
“Please continue, madam,” Holmes said.
“Mr. Holmes, the look of revulsion and fear that was on her face! She spoke with great difficulty, ‘Tell me, when went Quitnar from this house?’”
“‘Madam,’ I replied, ‘I was up at dawn, and the Colonel had already gone. But, Mem, if I may be so bold, may I ask what is wrong?’”
“‘Oh, peace! You may not,’ she retorted, ‘If it be told, the telling would not make it better.’ She then bade me to fetch ink and paper so she could pen a message to the Lieutenant summoning him home as soon as possible. I enlisted a stable boy to relay the missive to the encampment with all due speed.
“It was the next morning before the Lieutenant returned, accompanied by several of his officers. When she received them in the drawing room, she clad in mourning dress. Before them she unraveled a foul tale of rape and disgrace. In spite of the angered pleas of her husband and loyal friends, she would not name the villain until they swore to avenge her. In outraged pity, all present swore vengeance. Then, with a sigh as if her heart would break, she spoke the villain’s name, ‘Quitnar! He, it is he that guides this hand!‘ Then… then…” Miss Henley sobbed openly, “she drew a dagger from her dress and plunged it into her breast, piercing her heart and spraying the room red with her blood.”
I noticed that a sullen and slightly withdrawn look had come over Holmes.
“Well,” he asked curtly, “why do you come to me?”
I was appalled by Holmes’ tone and Miss Henley was visibly shaken. She looked at me with pleading eyes.
“Go on, Miss Henley,” I said, “Please continue.”
“Why… Lieutenant Lanticole has traced the disgraced Quitnar to London.” She looked in my direction. I nodded in encouragement. “And I would like you to find him first, bring him to justice, and prevent the Lieutenant and his men from perpetrating even another heinous crime.”
Holmes spoke in a low, serious tone, “Please step outside, Miss Henley. Mrs. Hudson will admit you into her parlor.”
Hesitantly, she stood, then looked questioningly at me. All I could do was shake my head sadly. Without further encouragement from me to continue, she departed from the room.
– End Chapter Three –
