“All this is true, is it not?”
“It is,” agreed the Duke. “All is as you have said.”
“No, Sir,” said Urban-Smith, rising from his chair to pace, “All is not as I have said, for Henry Muntjac does not lie in his grave. He walks amongst us still.”
“That’s impossible, Fairfax,” I cried. “We saw the autopsy pictures. We read the police report.”
“Impossible? I think not, for the body which currently lies in the Muntjac crypt is not the body of Mr Henry Muntjac.”
“This is preposterous,” huffed Hunt. “You’re insane.”
“Far from it, Mr Hunt, for the man who died on the piste that day was, in fact, Edgar Muntjac, the real Duke of Krill.” Urban-Smith turned upon the Duke and pointed an accusing finger. “You, Sir, are an imposter. You are the Duke’s brother, Henry Muntjac.”
Hunt and I gasped our astonishment. The Duke’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing. The Duchess reached out and took his hand.
“When your brother died,” Urban-Smith continued, “you knew immediately that you and the Duchess had fallen upon grave misfortune. As I understand it, the Duke had allowed the estate to fall into debt. You, Duchess, would have lost everything; your home, your status, your reputation. You, Henry, would have inherited nothing, save a handful of bankruptcy papers. Additionally, the Duke had no life insurance, but you did; quite a tidy sum, I understand.
“Fearing that all was lost, you entered into a fevered discourse, until one or both of you struck upon the idea to counterfeit the Duke’s identity. You claimed the life insurance, restored the coffers and adopted your brother’s persona.”
I could not believe my ears. “My dear Fairfax, it cannot be. We saw photographs of the body. How do you account for the earring and the frosted tips? And what of the Duke’s beard? Was it thrown clear of the impact in order to start anew, perhaps adopted by a family of alpine squirrels?”
“After the Duke’s death,” replied Urban-Smith, “it was a simple matter to cut and restyle his hair and apply bleach to replicate the necessary appearance. The beard was shaved off, and I suspect that the trimmed facial hair was used to fashion an impromptu false beard for the occasion of identifying the deceased. On returning to England, the new Duke hid himself away for several weeks in order to produce his own mandibular topiary.
“However, it was the earring that gave the game away.” Urban Smith ceased his pacing and turned to Henry Muntjac. “I suspect that if we were to examine your left ear, Duke, we would find evidence of a previous piercing. The photographs of the deceased showed a piercing in the right ear. So used were you to your appearance in the mirror, that you inadvertently pierced the eleventh Duke’s right ear in error. It was not until later, perhaps at the mortuary, when you realised what had happened. There was no way to rectify your mistake, so you needed to find a way to misdirect, and this you did with the photograph that you submitted to the Chromatic for your obituary, a copy of which I have here.” With a flourish, Urban-Smith produced said photograph from his inside pocket and handed it to across. “You chose a picture in which your piercing was clearly visible, and you submitted a mirror image of the original photograph so that the piercing would appear to be in your right ear. You chose well, for your brother’s wedding ring and watch were not visible, nor was there any other obvious sign of the picture’s reversal, save one; the clock on the wall behind you.
“The clock shows the time as half past seven, but the trees visible outside the window have shed most of their leaves, putting the date as late September or early October. Even at the start of September, the Sun would set before seven, yet it is still daylight in this photograph. However, if the picture were reversed, the true time would be revealed as four-thirty. From this deduction, the rest of the case becomes as clear as the heels on the late Miss Stormy Weathers’ shoes.”
The twelfth Duke of Krill had become pale and still. “Have you spoken to the police?”
“I have not, and I hope that it will not be necessary.”
The Duke and Duchess exchanged anxious glances.
“What do you want from us, Mr Urban-Smith?” asked the Duke.
“Compensation, Your Grace.” Urban-Smith seated himself. “I understand that an illegitimate child has no claim upon the title nor the estate, but your attempts to deceive Mr Weathers and your brother’s slanderous comments have hurt him deeply. I would ask that you make a settlement, including my client’s legal costs. In return, I shall agree not to reveal your true identity. For now, Mr Weathers believes you to be Edgar Muntjac, and his father to be the supposedly deceased Henry Muntjac.”
The Duke nodded enthusiastically. “I shall agree to your terms, but you must believe me, Mr Urban-Smith, neither the Duchess nor I knew anything of Mr Weathers’ claim until after the accident. My brother had kept the matter strictly confidential.”
“Do you claim that prior knowledge of Mr Weather’s claim would have altered your actions?” asked Urban-Smith.
The Duke thought for a few moments, then shook his head sadly.
“Alas, I do not believe that it would; my first thoughts were for myself. I will instruct Mr Hunt here to contact Mr Weathers and arrange payment.”
At this point, the Duchess broke her silence. She had a clear, strong voice, though there was an audible tremor of perturbation in her timbre.
“Mr Urban-Smith,” said she, “do you give your word as a gentleman that you shall not reveal the true nature of the Duke’s identity?” And at that moment, her unflappable demeanour was lost and she wept openly. “Please say that you will, Sir, for I love Henry with all of my heart. He is the husband that I have always wished for, kind, gentle, good at opening jars; everything that my late husband was not. These last few weeks have been the happiest of my life. Please say that it does not have to end.”
“Your Grace,” said Urban-Smith evenly, “I have no desire to see you destitute, your staff dismissed or the Duke imprisoned. I merely wish Mr Drake Weathers to receive the closure that he so desperately craves in order to lay this matter to rest.”
“Do we have your word?” she insisted.
“Yes, Your Grace. You have my solemn promise.”
*
There was nothing more to be said. Barnabus Hunt drove us back to Golders Green, and I withdrew sufficient funds from a local ATM to pay for a taxicab back to Chuffnell Mews. By lunchtime the following day, I was standing in the centre of Heathrow Airport’s fourth terminal, trying to decide where to spend the next four weeks.
Would it be Mumbai, or Malta, Mexico City or even Marrakesh?
I knew not where my journey would take me but, like all journeys, it would start with a single step.
*
So ended my association with The Fervent Fist. It has been twelve years since the death of Saxon Schwarzkröte and his murderous daughter, Clara, but still they haunt my dreams and thoughts.
My friendship with detective, author and paranormal investigator and researcher, Fairfax Urban-Smith, is as strong today as it ever was, but until now, he has remained strangely reluctant for me to publish any account of the remarkable events that I have witnessed. Over the last few years, however, his adamancy has faltered, and the World can at last reap the rewards of sharing in these journals which reveal the keen intellect, didactic wisdom and infallible reasoning of the greatest mind of this generation.
Perhaps more than this, surely the people of England have the right to know how close we came to subjugation and clandestine dominion, and perhaps take some comfort in the thought that, while there will always be evil men, history has shown that it is the better man who shall ultimately prevail.
*
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Smoked Havoc Page 24