“Almost certainly,” I said. “Are you intending to do nothing about these people who hang around your door?”
“They are harmless,” said Holmes, finally putting down his pen and turning toward me. “Whose advertisement is that?”
“Herbert Merrivale. Detective work of all sorts undertaken. Reasonable rates. Complete discretion. The most scientific and up-to-date methods of investigation guaranteed. Master of subterfuge and disguise.”
“Ah, I have not come across him before.”
“Well, there are at least three urchins with wads of paper like this by your front door even as I speak. Each represents a different imitator of yours. They trade, Holmes, on your good name and reputation. They seek to steal your own clients with promises of lower prices and I know not what else.”
“Well, you may depend on it that none has as fine a chronicler as I have. Do you think I need explain to the readers of my monograph who Petrach was?”
“I fear that you will,” I said. “This is your own fault, Holmes. Once you had achieved success in the field of detection, there were bound to be others who copied you. But when you disappeared for three years following your struggle with Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls, they really grew in numbers. They hoped to take your place. They sought to mimic not only your methods, but even your dress and mannerisms. Though you are, at last, happily back with us, they have not retired from the scene, but actually have the impudence to distribute their grubby handbills on Baker Street.”
“There is crime enough in London for us all,” said Holmes. “Do you think anyone will notice if I make no reference to Lassus’s Dutch songs?”
“Nobody at all,” I said. “And you plan to do nothing about these inferior versions of yourself and their (doubtless) equally inferior assistants and narrators? Because if you won’t, then I shall.”
“Not for the moment,” he said. “Neither of us has the necessary time. There is somebody coming up the stairs that I want you to meet.”
“Who?” I asked.
“A gentleman who visited me earlier and rather melodramatically told me that we had perhaps only days to save the British Empire from a terrible fate.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“I have no idea. I was in the middle of writing about Lassus’s motets. I told him to go away and take several circuits of Regent’s Park to calm down, then come back at the hour I was expecting your arrival. Any considerations of sixteenth-century choral music apart, I wanted you to hear what he has to say and to let me have your opinion of him.”
“You mean you think he may be mad?”
“He did not strike me so.”
“Then what help can I give you? I have defended the Empire in my own small way in the hills of Afghanistan. But of broader threats I happily know nothing. If it really is a matter that concerns the safety of this country, then surely your brother Mycroft, at the very centre of the government, would be a better judge of whether the man is speaking sense?”
A knock sounded at the door.
“Too late, I think, to send for my brother, who never ventures north of Oxford Street in any case. That urgent tapping will be Mr. Cromwell. Please be so good as to let him in, Watson. I shall tidy away my notes on Lassus. I don’t think they will interest him much, do you?”
“Not in the slightest,” I said.
Cromwell proved to be a man of middling height and well-dressed, though, I noted, with a small darn in the right knee of his trousers. I was pleased I’d seen it, because Holmes would expect me to notice such details.
My friend ushered our visitor into a chair by the fire. Though it was late spring, the afternoon was chilly and overcast and a brisk breeze was blowing down Baker Street.
“This,” said Holmes, “is my trusted friend, Dr. Watson. You may say anything in front of him that you would say to me alone.”
Cromwell nodded. “May I smoke?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Holmes.
Cromwell produced a large, curved pipe, already filled, and lit it, expending three or four matches in the process. He sucked at it tentatively, coughed, inspected the glowing tobacco and coughed again.
“Where do you wish me to begin?” he asked when he regained his voice.
“Tell us about yourself,” said Holmes.
“There’s not much to relate,” he said. “My name is Richard Cromwell. I am a bachelor and live in Clapham, near the common. I have a small private income—enough that I can please myself what I do. I therefore spend most of my days at the British Museum—I have a fancy to study Etruscan art.”
“Commendably obscure,” said Holmes with a nod. “So, how did you come across this intelligence that the Empire is in danger? From where we are sitting now, everything appears to be in order.”
“Do not mock me, Mr. Holmes,” said Cromwell. “I have chosen to come here, but I could as easily go elsewhere.” He took a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “Merrivale sounds as every bit as good as you. Cheaper and employing the most modern methods. I’ve heard he’s pretty clever. A master of disguise.”
“Then go to Merrivale by all means,” said Holmes suavely. “Since I have no idea who he is, I cannot say whether any of his claims are justified. As for the price, if the matter really concerns the safety of the Empire, I would scarcely charge you or anyone else.”
“You’ve really never heard of him?”
“Not until I saw a similar piece of paper in Dr. Watson’s hand earlier.”
Cromwell scowled. “Very well. In any case, the matter is urgent, and I suspect Merrivale is a busy man. You are aware that the Queen is ill?”
“A slight cold, so I’d heard.”
“At her age that could be enough to carry her off. She could be stiff as a board by tomorrow morning.”
“There was a time when saying that could have had you hanged for treason. But in this decadent era, your remark is merely in poor taste. The nation would grieve if Her Majesty were to pass away, but the Prince of Wales has been waiting all his life to succeed her. The Empire would be in good hands.”
“In the hands of a murderer?”
“You claim the Prince of Wales is a murderer?” said Holmes. He raised an eyebrow.
“It is certain. I will swear to it.”
“Ah, then you seem determined to commit treason even by today’s debased standards, or slander at the very least. Do you have proof of what you say?”
“No, but my cousin does. You must interview him.”
“And he lives in Clapham too?”
“In Cambridge. He is a pharmacist there.”
“And when do you claim this murder occurred?”
“More than thirty years ago.”
“Your cousin witnessed it?”
“No, but he was an unwitting accomplice.”
“And who was the victim?”
“Prince Albert, the Prince Consort.”
“But Prince Albert died of typhoid,” I said. “Sir William Jenner, whom I have the honour to know, was with him when he died. Jenner is our greatest expert on typhoid. He could not have been deceived.”
“Not deceived, merely silenced,” said Cromwell with a sneer. “The Queen knew well enough. She forbade an autopsy for fear that the truth should come out.”
“Even so, what possible motive could there have been?”
“The Prince of Wales was then an undergraduate at Cambridge. He had attended military training in Ireland the summer before and formed a liaison with one Nelly Clifden. His father found out, a little too late, and travelled to Cambridge to reprimand him. They argued bitterly. Very heated words were exchanged. Prince Albert returned to Windsor, where he died shortly afterwards.”
“More than two weeks afterwards,” I said.
“It was a slow-acting poison.”
“That sound
s unlikely.”
“I see that you doubt me, Dr. Watson, but what I say is true, nonetheless. You, Mr. Holmes, must go at once to Cambridge and speak to my cousin. After all these years, the matter weighs heavily on him. He wishes to confess. It was he who sold the Prince of Wales the poison.”
“Then why does he not go to the authorities himself?”
“Because he does not wish to hang as an accessory, Mr. Holmes. But if he can persuade you that what he says is true and give you the name of a further witness, then you can take whatever action you see fit. Your word would be respected. The prime minister would act.”
“And remove the Prince of Wales from the succession? I am not sure even Lord Rosebery can do that.”
“The prince would need to stand down or be exposed. Perhaps even hanged.”
“Or you could go to Merrivale,” said Holmes with a smile.
“He too is respected,” said Cromwell. “You may claim not to have heard of him, but one day his name will be as well-known as your own. And see here on this handbill: ‘complete discretion.’ That’s what I need. That’s what my cousin needs. Can you promise as much?”
“If what you say is true, then, other than to inform the authorities, not a word will pass my lips or the pen of Watson here.”
“I don’t need that,” said Cromwell. “You may write it up as you choose. I merely want my name and that of my cousin changed when you do.”
“Very well, Mr. Cromwell,” said Holmes. “Please write down your cousin’s name and where we are to find him. We shall travel to Cambridge by one of the mid-morning trains tomorrow. Then, on my return, I shall visit my brother, who is at the very centre of the web that makes up our Empire, and take his advice.”
“No!” exclaimed Cromwell. “On no account must Mycroft Holmes be involved! He is part of the conspiracy that has long concealed the Prince of Wales’s crime. You must go straight to Lord Rosebery, or the Home Secretary at the very least, and inform him yourself.”
Holmes nodded. “Very well, I shall do that, if your cousin confirms your story. Now, since our business is concluded, can I persuade you to join us for a simple bachelors’ supper?”
Cromwell took out a silver pocket watch but scarcely glanced at it before announcing that he had another appointment. He seemed anxious to be on his way.
“That is a great pity,” said Holmes. “A very great pity. We have veal pie. No? Are you sure? Very well, I would suggest that we meet again here at noon, in exactly one week’s time. I shall let you know what I have discovered.”
“So,” said Holmes, when Cromwell had departed. “What do you make of that?”
“I do not think he is mad,” I said. “He seems quite rational in everything except his faith in Merrivale as a detective. But surely his story is nonsense?”
“The outline is true enough. It is well-known—at least in the circles in which Mycroft moves—that the prince was enamoured of an actress of the name of Clifden at the time he was at Cambridge. And I fear, though it is not widely reported in our own newspapers, there have been many other ladies since then. The Prince Consort did indeed travel to Cambridge on the twenty-fifth of November, a few days before he died, to reprimand young Albert Edward. And though typhoid was given out as the cause of death, no autopsy was ever performed, at the Queen’s personal request. But let us consider the man himself—Mr. Cromwell, I mean. I think he has told us a number of lies. He is not, for example, a bachelor.”
“How do you know? Do you mean the neatness of the darning in his trousers?”
I was pleased that I had observed this, but Holmes shook his head.
“Well spotted, but not just that. There was also the question of the pipe. Like me, he is what you describe as a self-poisoner with tobacco. But a single man amongst other single men will take it for granted that he may light up. His request for permission suggests that he normally lives in more civilised circles. And his feeble attempts to get the pipe going show he is not allowed to smoke very often. Then there was his response to my invitation to sup with us. A bachelor breakfasts without knowing where he will dine. Any invitation is welcome to him. But a married man knows he is expected home for a meal in the evening and woe betide him if he is late—unless he already has his wife’s permission to be out.”
“Indeed,” I said. “So you knew he would not accept your offer?”
“I very much hoped he would not, because he seems a rather tedious individual. There would of course have been veal pie to spare if he had—I am not completely heartless.”
“So that is one lie.”
“I think so. He has also looked more into my personal life than he admitted. He knew for example that my brother was called Mycroft—few do unless they are very well acquainted with me. I was not an arbitrary choice for this task.”
“So his threat to go to Merrivale…”
“Was a mere bluff? Yes, it was not simply professional pride that convinces me that is correct. Merrivale would not have served his purpose. Let us call Mrs. Hudson and tell her that we shall eat early. Writing about Lassus always gives me an appetite.”
I received two telegrams at my practice the following morning, both reply-paid. The first was from Holmes, instructing me to be on the ten fifty-five train to Cambridge. I sent a message back to say I should be there. The second telegram I read, smiled at, and stuffed into my jacket pocket. Then I hailed a cab and asked to be taken to Liverpool Street.
Holmes was already lolling on his first-class seat, his long legs stretched out before him, with his pipe lit and issuing almost as much smoke as the engine.
“This is a very late train for us to be catching,” I said. “We could have almost completed our work by now and be setting off back to London.”
“Perhaps,” said Holmes. “But I have had a profitable morning at the British Museum.”
“You wished to ascertain whether Mr. Cromwell was really studying Etruscan vases?”
“I had not thought of that, though I suspect you are right that I would not have found him there. No, it was the library that I needed to visit, and for a rather more prosaic volume than Mr. Cromwell might have selected for his own reading.”
Holmes drew on his pipe. He would doubtless tell me in due course which book he had needed to consult.
“I too have had a potentially profitable morning,” I said.
“Potentially?”
“Much seems to depend on today’s expedition. As you know, I write up our investigations, and they are sometimes published in The Strand magazine. I received this telegram at nine o’clock. Like your own message, the reply was pre-paid.”
Holmes took the slip of paper. “A thousand pounds!” he exclaimed.
“Indeed. The editor is offering me that sum for my next report. He needs it by the end of the week. He offers to send a messenger round to collect it from my consulting rooms the moment it is finished. Payment on publication a few days later.”
“And he casually suggests writing up whichever case we are currently working on?”
“Just so.”
Holmes drew on his pipe and chuckled. “Do you think by any chance that he has been tipped off as to the nature of our present investigation?”
“I don’t see how he could have been,” I said.
“A thousand pounds is a lot of money.”
“I never said otherwise.”
“And what did you reply?”
“As yet, nothing. I obviously wished to consult you. The matter seemed too delicate to be the subject of any account—even if, as Mr. Cromwell wished, I changed the names of the parties.”
“On the contrary. Take the reply slip to the post office in Cambridge and tell him that he may send his boy at the end of the week—Friday morning at ten. I think we shall be ready for him by then.”
It was almost one o’clock when our train finally pulled
into Cambridge station, but Holmes insisted on a leisurely stroll into the centre of town and then an equally leisurely luncheon at a public house close to Trinity College. Two o’clock had already struck when we paid our bill and set out to locate the pharmacist’s shop in a back street in the northern part of the city, though even then we stopped off at the post office to deal with the reply-paid telegram. Holmes must have consulted a street plan of Cambridge at the British Museum, because, once we had left the busy town centre, he did not pause or hesitate as we worked our way between the rows of low and dirty terraced houses. Eventually we came to a shop, on its own in a small cul-de-sac. The paintwork was blistered and the glass was covered in grime, but the sign above the large window was freshly painted. “Cromwell’s Pharmacy,” it read, then underneath in much smaller letters: “Late Fairfax.”
“We have found our man,” said Holmes.
The sign on the door still said closed, but I tried the handle and it swung open. The inside was as dingy as the exterior and as deserted as the street, but the large jars on the shelves and the pill bottles on the counter all appeared to have been cleaned and dusted recently. The owner clearly cared more about his profession than he did about appearances.
The man behind the counter looked up eagerly as we came in—I wondered if we were in fact his first visitors that day. He was of middling height, grey-haired, and with large grey mutton-chop whiskers and a very black moustache. He wore horn-rimmed spectacles.
“Can I help you, my good sirs?” he said.
“I believe you can,” said Holmes. “You are Mr. Cromwell?”
“I am, sir.”
“And you have a cousin living in Clapham of the same name?”
“He is Richard, I am Henry, but yes, the same surname, to be sure.”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said my friend.
“Ah, then he could not get Merrivale?” asked the pharmacist. “That is a pity.”
“I do not know Merrivale, so I cannot say how much of a pity it is. But since I am here, and since you seem to know why I am here, perhaps you would be good enough to tell us what happened to you on the twenty-fifth of November 1861?”
The Return of Sherlock Holmes Page 25