‘Oh,’ Goring replied easily, ‘his name’s Ernest Moncrieff. I’m not surprised that you’ve heard of him, he was rather famous for a little while. He used to be known, in London at least, as Ernest Worthing.’
‘Good heavens!’ I exclaimed. I remembered the case well – it had been widely reported in the newspapers at the time.
John Worthing had been a country squire and Justice of the Peace, usually known at his home in Hertfordshire as Jack, but to his friends in town by the name Ernest. He had been adopted as an infant and brought up by a philanthropic gentleman named Thomas Cardew, who on his death had left his country seat and much of his wealth to Worthing. With them came the guardianship of Cardew’s granddaughter, Cecily Cardew, who received the rest of his fortune.
Two years before our encounter with Lord Goring, Worthing had discovered that he was by birth the elder son and heir of the late General Ernest Moncrieff, and thereby that his Christian name was, indeed, Ernest. Unknown to any of them, the Honourable Gwendolen Fairfax, to whom Worthing had recently become engaged, was in fact his cousin, while his close friend Algernon Moncrieff, through whom he had met Miss Fairfax, was none other than his younger brother.
In itself, this assortment of coincidences would have been enough to make headlines, especially when it transpired that Algernon Moncrieff had also become engaged to his brother’s ward, Cecily Cardew. However, it had been the details of John Worthing’s (or rather, Ernest Moncrieff’s) early history that had especially captured the imaginations of both journalists and the reading public. He had learned of his true identity from the information of a former employee in the household of the then-Colonel Moncrieff, the nursemaid who had thoughtlessly misplaced him as a baby. Thomas Cardew had found the child in a cloakroom at Victoria Station, where this inept woman had accidentally deposited him in a handbag. The name ‘John Worthing’ had been bestowed by Cardew after the seaside resort to which he had been bound that day, although his discovery of the infant had naturally caused his plans to change.
Some of these details sprang immediately to my mind when Goring mentioned the name, while my memory of others I refreshed later with the help of Holmes’s comprehensive Index. The case of the so-called ‘Handbag Heir’ and his relatives had become something of an obsession with the popular press during the summer of 1895, though they soon moved on to celebrating some other sensation.
‘Quite so,’ said Goring drily in response to my involuntary utterance. ‘I need hardly say that great delicacy must be exercised in discussing Ernest Moncrieff’s family history.’
‘Of course,’ I agreed.
‘It is point of discretion among his friends to avoid mentioning it at all, in fact, as it is naturally a subject that causes him the greatest excitement.’
He said this with an air of amusement that it took me a moment to puzzle out. ‘You mean that if it’s mentioned he talks about it incessantly?’
Coolly, Goring replied, ‘I would not like to say so, Dr Watson. Certainly not in so many words.’
Passing the Palace, we shortly entered that district where so many of our nation’s most august and honoured families have their London homes, and in a brief while we found ourselves once more at Belgrave Square.
This close consists of a leafy, landscaped central area of greenery surrounded by beautiful cream-coloured terraces in the Georgian style. Four separate mansions stand at its corners, marking the cardinal points of the compass, but Number 149 was one of the terraced houses, standing six storeys high including attic and basement, with a pillared front entrance and balconies at several levels, front and rear.
These details were familiar to me, of course, both from my long residence in London and more particularly from our visit to Lord Arthur Savile’s house that morning. I glanced across the square towards the Saviles’ house in the far terrace as our cab drew up, but my view was blocked by the trees thronging the central park.
Seeing me looking, Lord Goring observed, ‘A few years ago, fashion favoured the far side of the square, but she is an inconstant mistress. Lady Bloxham, to whom Cardew and then Moncrieff let this house for many years, wouldn’t have cared to be on the fashionable side, but Moncrieff’s mother-in-law has a different view.’
I was briefly surprised by the idea that one of London’s most exclusive addresses could be subject to such gradations of prestige, but by then our cab was coming to a halt. As we climbed out, one of a brace of police constables came across to us, leaving his colleague stationed at the doorstep of Number 149. He touched the brim of his helmet and said, ‘Party’s over, I’m afraid, gents. There’s been an accident.’
Goring said easily, ‘Nonsense, my man. I told you when Lady Goring and I left that I would be back.’
Recognising him then, the constable said, ‘That’s as may be, my lord, but my inspector’s orders is that there’s not to be all these comings and goings. It’s all we can do to stop any more guests leaving than has already. We had to let Lady Bracknell go just now,’ he added, shuddering slightly at the memory.
‘Then I suppose your inspector should be delighted to see one of us returning. Let us in, there’s a good fellow.’ Lord Goring strode towards the front door with that unquestioning assumption of entitlement that aristocratic breeding uniquely confers – although I have observed that Holmes effects a very passable imitation. He did so now, leaving me following both of them rather more diffidently.
The policeman on the door stepped readily aside. We followed, and as this second man touched his helmet to us I realised I recognised him from some past case of Holmes’s. He said, ‘Mr Holmes, Dr Watson. We wondered if we’d be seeing you here. The inspector’s out the back with the body.’
Holmes paused for just a moment. ‘Which inspector, Constable Northbrook?’
‘Inspector Gregson, sir.’
Holmes nodded thoughtfully, then declared, ‘He will do.’
A butler met us in the entrance lobby and began to show us through to the rear of the house. As we passed along the main hallway, however, a side-door burst open emitting a surge of chatter and cigar smoke, and a handsome moustached man emerged. He was rather younger than Lord Goring and wore a white gardenia in his buttonhole. ‘Are these more policemen, Merriman?’ he asked the butler irritably. ‘Oh, it’s you, Goring. I thought you were the police again. There’s an absolute legion of them infesting my lawn. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen so many together in one place. I keep expecting them to break into a comic chorus. Who are these fellows?’ It was clear that this man was our unwitting host, Mr Ernest Moncrieff, formerly known as Ernest or Jack Worthing.
Lord Goring smiled. ‘Auxiliaries for the legion, I am afraid, Moncrieff. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr John Watson.’
‘Very probably they are, but what on earth do you mean by bringing them here?’ Moncrieff demanded, shaking our hands peevishly. Behind him, in what must have been the house’s diminutive ballroom, a band struck up a waltz. ‘It’s outrageous that I should be besieged by official detectives in my own home, without amateurs, even gentleman amateurs, coming to reinforce them.’
‘My dear fellow, I’ve brought them here to do the police’s work for them,’ Goring explained patiently. ‘If they can uncover the truth of this matter then you will no longer be besieged.’
Another man, slighter, darker and a few years younger than Moncrieff, had emerged from the ballroom behind him, holding a plateful of small chocolate éclairs. This man said airily, ‘In my experience the truth, like brick walls and bathers, is generally better covered up. In all cases a tasteful drapery is more acceptable than the brute reality.’ He popped one of the pastries into his mouth.
‘The dead man might feel otherwise,’ Holmes observed, ‘were he in a position to feel anything at all, Mr…?’
Ernest sighed. ‘Oh, this is my preposterous brother, Algernon.’ Though I would not have taken them for blood relations, Ernest’s voice was full of the impatience and affection that men feel for their br
others, or for their closest friends.
Algernon Moncrieff fastidiously finished his éclair before saying, ‘Not one of us knows what the chap was even doing here. I consider it unconscionably presumptuous to fall to one’s death from the balcony of a perfect stranger. Even if a man has no balcony of his own from which to arrange a mortal fall, many of our public buildings are designed to afford every facility for such occasions. Oh, are you leaving us, Mrs Teville?’
This was addressed to a woman dressed very glamorously in a deep purple ballgown with lace at the cuffs, embellished with pearls and a slightly faded mink stole. Though the colour of the gown indicated mourning, the impression made by the ensemble was anything but sombre. To my practised eye she looked to be around my own age, which is to say no longer by any means in the bloom of youth; but her attire and hair, and the powder and rouge she wore on her face, were artfully contrived to make her seem ten or more years younger.
She said, in a low-pitched, rather dramatic voice, ‘I am afraid I must. It has been a most pleasant evening, apart from those parts of it that have been frightful. But really, such a misfortune as has occurred tonight might happen to anybody. You have my condolences, Mr Moncrieff.’
‘Our misfortune is as nothing compared with the loss of your company,’ Ernest gallantly assured her. She snapped open a prettily decorated fan to mask her smile.
‘Now, Mr Moncrieff, you must not flirt with me,’ Mrs Teville said, severely gratified. ‘My late husband would not have cared for it, and I am quite certain that your dear wife would not.’
Ernest replied gravely, ‘Since a man may not flirt with his wife, Mrs Teville, he is left with no choice but to flirt without her.’
‘My dear fellow,’ Algernon remonstrated, ‘Cecily and I flirt constantly. The alternative would be to talk seriously to one another, and if that were to happen I could hardly answer for the survival of our marriage.’
The partygoers were still impeding our path, and Holmes was becoming visibly irritated with their badinage. Lord Goring said, ‘If you will excuse us, Mrs Teville, I have brought these gentlemen to assist the police in the garden.’
‘Oh,’ Mrs Teville declared, showing no inclination to move. ‘And who are these very helpful gentlemen?’
Holmes bowed stiffly. ‘Sherlock Holmes, madam, at your service. And this is Dr Watson.’
Mrs Teville gasped in excitement, unless it was alarm, and fanned herself quickly. ‘Sherlock Holmes, the adventurer and sleuth? Sir, if I have need of your services I shall most certainly call upon them.’
‘I trust that you never will,’ Holmes replied.
‘Oh, but I hope I shall,’ she laughed. ‘I should far rather you were investigating someone else on my behalf than investigating me on theirs.’
‘Allow me to accompany you to your carriage, Mrs Teville,’ a man of around her age suggested smoothly as he, too, emerged from the ballroom, and claimed the widow’s arm as if Holmes were not there. ‘The police, puritans that they are, try to keep us here on the grounds that we may be guilty. Guilty!’ he laughed. ‘Speaking for myself, I hardly know the meaning of the word.’ He was grey-haired but very attractive, tall and obviously strong, and like Goring clearly prided himself on his appearance.
‘I thank you, Lord Illingworth,’ Mrs Teville replied, rather coldly. ‘I hardly think the services of an experienced diplomat such as yourself are necessary for such a simple venture. Perhaps Mr Holmes or Dr Watson would instead oblige?’
By now Holmes was looking extremely impatient. ‘I regret, madam, that we are both required most urgently on other business.’
‘Then it shall have to be Lord Illingworth. I am delighted to have met you, Mr Holmes, nevertheless.’ She allowed herself to be led to the front door.
‘Will the police let her through?’ I wondered.
‘After their encounter with our aunt, I doubt they will have the heart to refuse,’ observed Ernest, with a sympathetic shudder.
‘Indeed,’ Algernon agreed. ‘If the demoralising effect she has on policemen were somehow to be applied to their opponents, I should expect the capital’s crime statistics to halve overnight.’
As we followed Lord Goring to the back door, I heard Ernest retort, ‘Algy, I can’t see how you can possibly eat éclairs at a time like this.’
‘I can’t see how you can possibly expect me to eat these particular éclairs at any other time,’ Algernon protested as they retreated into the ballroom.
Goring led us out into the rear garden, which was indeed full of policemen. It was not, however, a large garden, and this initial impression soon gave way to a realisation that there were only a handful of uniformed men there, a sergeant and four constables, together with the tall, pale figure of Inspector Tobias Gregson.
The terraced houses in Belgrave Square are narrow, and extend a long way to the rear as well as vertically. Since all are equipped with a mews giving onto a lane at the back, for stables and additional servants’ accommodation, the space available for a garden is limited, and indeed many of the houses lack one altogether. Number 149’s garden was in a tight L shape surrounding one end of the house, little more than a thin green strip of lawn running around this end of the long ballroom. Its longer section was interrupted in the middle by a square of flagstones surrounding a granite plinth. As Algernon Moncrieff had suggested, one of the floors above boasted a balcony, and it was from this that the man who lay dead upon the flagstones had evidently fallen.
‘Well, well, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,’ Inspector Gregson said. ‘I am surprised to see you here.’
‘Lord Goring was kind enough to involve me in this case,’ Holmes explained smoothly, ‘but I have explained to him that my interest is exclusively in finding out the truth.’
‘Ah, Lord Goring,’ Gregson replied, unhappily. ‘I’m glad you have returned. We will need to speak to you later, you know, and to Lady Goring also. I have people talking to the servants downstairs, but the guests are going to need to make their statements when they’re ready.’
‘For my own part, I am at your service,’ His Lordship replied. ‘For Lady Goring, the morning will have to suffice.’
‘May I examine the body?’ I asked the inspector.
‘Surely, Dr Watson. In fact, gentlemen, to be frank I would appreciate both of your opinions,’ Gregson said, drawing us a little away from Lord Goring. ‘This is something of a ticklish situation. There are more earls and viscounts and honourables at this event than you can shake a stick at, and if I put a foot wrong and arrest the incorrect person, my superiors will not be best pleased. Your presence here may be unexpected, but I cannot pretend that it is unwelcome.’
I crossed over to the dead man. ‘Do you have any idea who he is?’ Holmes asked.
‘A stranger to the household, as it seems,’ said Gregson. ‘The butler says he turned up for the first time this evening, asking to speak to Mr Moncrieff. He gave his name as… what was it, sergeant? I didn’t make a note.’
The sergeant murmured in his ear.
‘Ah yes,’ said Gregson. ‘Apparently the deceased’s name is Bunbury.’
CHAPTER THREE
THE UNEXPECTED GUEST
The unfortunate Mr Bunbury was a slight man of about thirty, clean shaven with his black hair closely cropped, dressed in a cheap suit that nevertheless fitted him tolerably well. He lay on his back on the flagstones, his limbs splayed, his eyes regarding the starry sky with appalled horror. The state of his cranium, and a bloodstain on the plinth, suggested that a collision between them had been the immediate cause of his demise.
The dead man’s attire marked him out as neither a servant, all of whom were garbed in appropriate livery for the ball, nor a musician or guest, as they naturally wore evening dress. In his left hand he clutched a scrap of white lace on which a cluster of jewels gleamed duskily.
‘What is that plinth for?’ I heard Holmes ask as I knelt on the chilly grass.
‘I’m told it used to hold a sundial,’ Gregson repl
ied. ‘The previous resident liked to keep one, though this garden must get very little sun. Apparently Mr Moncrieff had an idea of installing some sculpture there, so has never had it removed.’
I quickly established that the cause of death was as it appeared. I said, ‘The poor fellow would have died immediately.’ The ground was hard and frosty tonight, but had he fallen onto the lawn instead I thought that he would probably have survived.
‘Who found him?’ Holmes asked Gregson.
‘The Earl of Illingworth,’ the inspector replied heavily, and I remembered the man who had offered to escort Mrs Teville from the premises. ‘A bachelor, so he’s here on his own. He is something distinguished in the diplomatic service, though I think he’s between assignments just now. He had just stepped out to take the air in the garden with Mrs Moncrieff, and, well, they couldn’t have missed him lying there.’
This end of the house was separated from the garden by French windows. As it was a cold night these were closed and curtained off inside, but I was aware of those curtains twitching and eyes periodically observing us from the ballroom.
Holmes said, ‘Please be specific, Inspector. Which Mrs Moncrieff?’
‘Oh – Mrs Algernon Moncrieff, I gather. Cecily. The host’s sister-in-law.’
‘Also his former ward and his wife’s cousin by marriage,’ Holmes noted. ‘The family history is a convoluted one.’
‘That’s often the way of it in these aristocratic families, isn’t it?’ said Gregson. ‘Saving your presence, Lord Goring.’
‘Oh, please don’t mind me,’ His Lordship said, a little impatiently. ‘I had the very good fortune to marry a woman to whom I am no relation whatsoever.’
‘Nor to the Moncrieffs?’ Holmes asked.
‘No, neither of us. My wife’s family are the Chilterns. Her brother is Sir Robert Chiltern, the parliamentarian.’
I had been examining the late Bunbury for other injuries, but had found little out of the ordinary. I closed the man’s eyes now, and stood up. ‘The only recent wound is the one that killed him,’ I said, ‘although there’s a scratch on the back of his right hand that’s a few days old. If he was pushed, it looks like an unexpected shove rather than a protracted fight. But equally he might have fallen unassisted.’
Sherlock Holmes--The Spider's Web Page 3