The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Affair of the Texan’s Honour
Mrs Piggott was a plump, pink woman in plain prints and a starched pinafore, with humorous eyes and a slight pursing of the mouth which suggested a conflict between her natural warmth and a slightly censorious temperament. Indeed, this is exactly what we discovered. She had known both Sir Geoffrey and Mrs Gallibasta. She had been on good terms with a number of the servants, she said, although one by one they had left and had not been replaced.
“There was talk, gentlemen, that the poor baronet was next to destitute and couldn’t afford new servants. But he was never behind with the wages and those who worked for him were loyal enough. Especially his housekeeper. She had an odd, distant sort of air, but there’s no question she looked after him well and since his prospects were already known, she didn’t seem to be hanging around waiting for his money.”
“Yet you were not fond of the woman?” murmured Holmes, his eyes studying an advertisement for toffee.
“I will admit that I found her a little strange, sir. It wasn’t her gypsy looks that bothered me, but we never sparked, if you follow me. She was always very polite and pleasant in her conversation. I saw her almost every day, too—though never in church. She’d come in here to pick up whatever small necessities they needed. She always paid cash and never asked for credit. It seemed that she was supporting Sir Geoffrey, not the other way around. Some said she had a temper to her and that once she had taken a rake to an under-footman, but I saw no evidence of it. She’d spend a few minutes chatting with me, sometimes purchase a newspaper, collect whatever mail there was and walk back up the lane to the manor. Rain or shine, sir, she’d be here. A big, healthy woman she was. She’d joke about what a handful it all was, him and the estate, but she didn’t seem to mind. I only knew one odd thing about her. When she was poorly, no matter how sick she became, she always refused a doctor. She had a blind terror of the medical profession, sir. The very suggestion of calling Doctor Shapiro would send her into screaming insistence that she needed no ‘sawbones’. Otherwise, she was what Sir Geoffrey needed, him being so gentle and strange and with his head in the clouds.”
“But given to irrational fears and notions, I gather?”
“Not so far as I ever observed, sir. He hadn’t changed since a boy. Though he stayed at the house for the past several years and I only saw him occasionally. But when I did he was his usual sunny self. You could tell from his expression that he thought the world of her, too. We thought she kept him young.”
“That’s most interesting, Mrs Piggott. I am grateful to you. I think I will have a quarter-pound of your best bullseyes, if you please. Oh, I forgot to ask. Do you remember Sir Geoffrey receiving any letters from America?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Frequently. He looked forward to them, she said. I remember the envelope and the stamps. It was almost his only regular correspondent.”
“And Sir Geoffrey sent his replies from here?”
“I wouldn’t know that, sir. The mail’s collected from a pillar-box near the station. You’ll see it, if you’re going back that way.”
“Mrs Gallibasta, I believe, has left the neighbourhood.”
“Not two weeks since, sir. My son carried her boxes to the station for her. She took all her things. She’s hoping to get a position in Las Cascadas, I gather. My boy mentioned how heavy her luggage was. He said if he hadn’t attended Sir Geoffrey’s service at St James’s he’d have sworn he was in her trunk! If you’ll pardon the levity, sir.”
“I am greatly obliged to you, Mrs Piggott.” The detective lifted his hat and bowed. I recognised Holmes’s brisk, excited mood. He was on a hot trail now, as he liked to say. “One last thing—would you recommend the beer at The Mason’s Arms?”
“And the lunch, sir. It’s all home-made.”
The hostelry fulfilled our highest expectations of English country fare and while we enjoyed it Holmes refused to discuss the case. Only when we were leaving did he murmur: “I must go round to 22lb immediately upon our return to London. I must consult some early files.”
As I drove the dog-cart back to the station in the sweet-smelling afternoon air, Holmes scarcely spoke a further word. He was lost in thought all the way to London. I was used to my friend’s moods and habits and was content to let that brilliant mind exercise itself while I gave myself up to the world’s concerns in the Telegraph.
MR Macklesworth joined us for tea that afternoon. Mrs Ackroyd had outdone herself with smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches, small savouries, scones and cakes. The tea was my favourite Darjeeling, whose delicate flavour is best appreciated at that time in the afternoon, and even Holmes remarked that we might be guests at Sinclair’s or the Grosvenor.
Our ritual was overseen by the splendid Fellini Silver which, perhaps to catch the best of the light, Holmes had placed in our sitting room window, looking out to the street. It was as if we ate our tea in the presence of an angel. Mr Mackelsworth balanced his plate on his knee wearing an expression of delight. “I have heard of this ceremony, gentlemen, but never expected to be taking part in a High Tea with Mr Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson!”
