Ernest tutted. ‘Well, as I have said, the fellow is clearly a lunatic. His first letter informed me, if you please, that I am not Ernest Moncrieff!’
‘My dear fellow,’ Algernon said, ‘I shall be quite exasperated if that is the case. I have already gone to the inconvenience of telling everybody we know that you are my brother, despite all earlier protestations to the contrary. We were best men at one another’s weddings on the clear understanding that we were brothers. It would be perfectly absurd to have to announce that I was mistaken after all this time.’
‘Don’t be fatuous, Algy,’ Ernest snapped. ‘The man is either insane or a liar. His story is that he and I were exchanged when we were babies, that I was purloined from my handbag at Victoria Station and replaced by another child. Or rather, I suppose, that he was. It’s all most confusing.’
Holmes said, ‘I have recently looked into the matter of your early abduction, Mr Moncrieff. I found no suggestion of any such substitution.’
Ernest sighed. ‘It seemed fantastically unlikely to me as well. Since all the chief events of my life have been fantastically unlikely, though, my judgement may be unreliable on that point. In any case, the chap was giving me warning that he intended to press his legal claim to the identity of Ernest Moncrieff, and thus to the Moncrieff fortune.’
Algernon shook his head in amusement. ‘Dear me. Does Gwendolen know about this development?’
‘No, Algy, Gwendolen does not know about this development, and I don’t wish you to tell her. If a man can’t keep secrets from his own wife, who can he keep them from?’
‘What was your response to this communication?’ Holmes asked Ernest.
‘I wrote back at once, of course, explaining that there is no longer any Moncrieff fortune, my dear brother as the supposed heir having spent it all long before I saw a penny of it. We are both quite reliant upon our wives and upon the Cardew estate.’
‘And what was the reply?’ Holmes asked. ‘You mentioned letters in the plural.’
‘The second took a more admonitory tone,’ Ernest admitted. ‘It suggested that, since the author and I had, as previously mentioned, been exchanged during infancy, he was the son of a general whereas I was the son of the common criminal whom society has deemed to be his father. In this capacity, he suggested, it would be difficult to maintain my marriage to Gwendolen or my relations with her family, which shows a certain shrewdness where my mother-in-law’s character is concerned. He implied that reparations for the wrongs I had done him might assist with his discretion in these matters, and that instructions on this point would follow.’
‘When did this exchange occur?’ Holmes asked.
‘Oh, the week before last, I think.’
‘Did you keep the letters?’
‘No, they went onto the fire.’
Holmes looked exasperated at the family’s lax record-keeping practices. ‘Did you at least remember the address of the post office box?’
Ernest shrugged. ‘I suppose that might have been astute of me. But I was expecting to hear from him again in any case.’
Holmes leaned back, steepling his fingers. ‘And do you think that you did?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The man who died at your house. Might he have come there to demand those reparations?’
Ernest looked thoughtful. ‘Well, I suppose he might. But my fellow claims to be the real Ernest Moncrieff. Why would he give the name Bunbury? Bunbury was Algy’s pretence, not mine. I always thought the business perfectly absurd.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Moncrieff,’ said Holmes, ‘but do you stand by all your previous statements about the deceased? That you never met him, failed to catch his name, ignored his presence in the hope that he would go away, and in any case did not go up to the library to see him?’
‘It is all perfectly true,’ said Ernest. ‘I haven’t lied to you at all, except to exaggerate my unfamiliarity with the name Bunbury.’
‘That was very foolish of you,’ Algernon suggested idly. ‘A lie is always preferable to the truth, as it may be shaped to be whatever one wishes. However hard one tries, the truth remains obstinately unmalleable.’
‘I suppose you think that’s clever, Algy,’ Ernest said savagely.
‘No, it is merely true. Which is a disappointment, naturally.’
Holmes shook his head, and I could tell that he was exercised, as he would say, by this succession of revelations. He said, ‘I suppose we must conclude that the dead man was connected with one or more of these attempts at blackmail, but which one I cannot at this moment say. Nor can I see how they relate to one another. The approaches they make are all markedly different, but three nearly simultaneous blackmail attempts upon the same family are a coincidence I simply refuse to allow. Two, perhaps, but not three.’
At Ernest’s request, Algernon and Cecily retold their stories. Considering them, Ernest concluded, ‘I must say, I think you’re exaggerating their similarity, Holmes. Algy’s fellow sounds ugly enough to be a professional, but Cecily’s and mine are obviously two cranks with different fixations.’
‘There is no truth, then, in the idea that one of Cecily’s parents might have survived?’
‘None that I know of. I was always told that my poor foster-sister Violet and her husband had died. Of course, I was barely eleven at the time.’
‘Did you meet the husband, Mr Moncrieff?’ Holmes asked him.
‘Ah, no. The marriage happened elsewhere. Thomas, her father, was invited, certainly, but I was too young. It does seem unnecessarily confusing if one of Cecily’s parents somehow survived. It seems very inconsistent for a wife to survive an accident that carries away her husband, or vice versa.’
‘To lose both parents may be described as a misfortune,’ Algernon agreed airily. ‘To lose one smacks of half-heartedness.’
I was shocked anew by the callousness of this, but I remembered that Algernon, like so many of the principals in this affair, was an orphan. ‘You seem remarkably nonchalant, Mr Moncrieff,’ I suggested, ‘given that your brother believes that your blackmailer is the only serious one.’
Algy frowned. ‘I admit I’m concerned by the things the impudent fellow seems to know, none of which I have the slightest intention of telling any of you. Not even you, Cecily.’
‘Oh, I quite understand, dearest,’ said Cecily. ‘A married couple with no secrets would have very little left to offer one another. Perfect marital bliss arises from an absolute ignorance of one’s spouse’s character.’
‘But,’ Algernon went on, ‘it seems to me that actually revealing anything is the last thing the fellow will do. The threat to do so is all that gives him any hold over me, but if he carries it out, it ceases to be a threat. To exercise his control is to lose it. If I refuse to cooperate, he really has no recourse at all.’
‘That is an unusually clearheaded view of blackmail,’ Holmes replied, his tones suggesting a somewhat increased respect for the feckless young man. ‘Unfortunately, it neglects the possibility that a professional blackmailer might engineer your downfall as an object lesson for his other victims.’
Algernon paled. ‘I must confess that that hadn’t occurred to me. Still, what else could I have done?’
‘You were in an unenviable position—’ Holmes began, but at that moment Lane appeared in the door and with great loudness announced the arrival of Lady Bracknell.
By unspoken consent, everybody dropped the subject of blackmail at once.
‘Good evening, Aunt Augusta!’ said Algernon cheerfully, leaping to his feet from the posture he had immediately adopted upon a chaise longue.
‘Aunt Augusta,’ said Cecily, kissing her cheek. ‘We thought you were at the theatre.’
‘Now, Cecily,’ said Lady Bracknell, ‘you know that I never linger beyond the interval. By then one has seen and been seen by everybody necessary.’
Tentatively, Ernest suggested, ‘I believe it is customary to stay to see the actors, Aunt Augusta.’
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p; ‘Certainly not,’ his aunt declared. ‘It would give them ideas quite above themselves. I have come here looking for Gwendolen, but it appears that she is not with you.’
Ernest replied, ‘No, she—’ but Lady Bracknell was not stopping for an answer.
She asked, ‘And what, pray, is the opinionated Mr Holmes doing here?’
‘Seeking new opinions, Lady Bracknell,’ Holmes replied. ‘It seems that the ones I held before are thoroughly antiquated.’
‘In opinion as in art, antiquity is no guarantee of decency,’ said Lady Bracknell. ‘But I fear you are being trivial, sir.’ She brought her lorgnette to bear on him once again. ‘It seems that you have ignored my advice to desist from this impertinent inquiry into my son-in-law’s affairs and to adopt a more becoming occupation.’
‘The Church holds little appeal for me, I fear,’ Holmes drawled, ‘and I am less interested in stamps than in the letters which come attached to them.’
Hastily, Cecily asked, ‘How was the theatre, Aunt Augusta? Until the interval, I mean.’
‘It was tedious in the extreme,’ Her Ladyship replied. ‘I was with young Lady Angmering, and since her children were born she will talk of nothing but her dogs. Had I stayed I should have had no recourse but to listen to the play. As it was, I was obliged to forgo my custom of tea at Brown’s after the theatre.’
‘It sounds fascinating,’ Ernest said quickly. ‘You must sit down and tell us absolutely nothing about it. Mr Holmes and Dr Watson were just leaving, I believe.’
‘Presently,’ said Holmes. ‘Lady Bracknell, I pray that you will indulge me. Have you by any chance been approached recently by anybody who seemed to know more about you or your family than you might have expected, who might perhaps have implied that this unusual degree of knowledge might merit some pecuniary reward?’
The silence which followed this question was like that which I imagine might precede an avalanche. My readers will know that I am not a timorous man, but I found myself fighting an urge to flee.
Finally, Lady Bracknell said, in a voice like the chilly whisper of sliding snow, ‘I do not know what you are insinuating, Mr Holmes, but I know that I do not care for it. My family has no secrets that are not inscribed in the society columns and set down on the pages of Debrett’s. We are fortunate enough, sir, to live in an age of surfaces, wherein a favourable appearance is the outward sign of private rectitude, and a pleasing demeanour an infallible indication of upright character. My own flaws, if such they are, and those of my relatives, which I regret are many, are altogether apparent to those who know us, and in that respect we are in perfect earnest.’ Her tones were gathering both speed and volume now. ‘We do not disguise or misrepresent ourselves, Mr Holmes, as I understand to be your opprobrious habit, and neither do we insinuate or inveigle ourselves into other persons’ houses with the intention of deceiving them into damaging admissions.’ Her voice had built now into a roar which echoed from the walls as if from the surrounding mountaintops. ‘And if, sir, you have any such intention here, then I can promise you that you will meet with no success!’
Holmes bowed deeply. ‘So it would seem,’ he said. ‘Good evening to you, Lady Bracknell.’
I let out a long and unsteady breath as we made our escape out into Lowndes Square, and waited for my nerves to subside before I spoke.
It was remarkable to consider the trepidation Lady Bracknell’s force of personality inspired. I wondered whether it was the result of breeding: generations of genteel deference on the part of my middle-class ancestors, as opposed to generations of her ancestors’ absolute expectation of entitlement to that deference. Perhaps, as Holmes had playfully suggested, the rich were indeed different by heredity… except that Lady Bracknell seemed to strike equal terror into the hearts of her own relatives.
‘What an extraordinary family,’ I observed at last. ‘And what an extraordinary scene.’
‘It was indeed,’ agreed Holmes. Night had fallen while we were within, and the lamps had been lit, casting their buttery glow across the pavement and the trees clustered at the centre of the square. ‘But as Ernest pointed out, unusual events appear to dog the Moncrieffs’ steps.’
‘So they do,’ I said. ‘It felt strangely artificial, somehow. The way they each entered in succession, with Lady Bracknell arriving at the climactic moment…’
‘As if it were concocted for our benefit? Well, perhaps,’ Holmes mused, ‘though such extravagance of language and manner seems to be the norm in their set. Certainly, Lady Bracknell evinced little interest in the art of acting. We can do little but accept what has happened tonight at face value – for the moment, at least. We may, as Her Ladyship observes, live in an age of surfaces, but I for one am perennially curious about what lies beneath them.’
Holmes flagged down a cab and instructed the cabman to return us to Baker Street. On the way we smoked in silence and pondered the case. At least, I pondered. Holmes, I assumed, was doing the same, but I had never learned the trick of reading his thoughts from his expression as he had mine.
As he remained silent, however, I eventually revealed the fruits of my contemplations. I said, ‘You know, Holmes, it needn’t have been any of the Moncrieffs who killed Bunbury, or Lady Goring either. If Cecily is really being blackmailed by one of her parents, then Mrs Teville is the obvious suspect for both crimes. She’s of an age to be Violet Cardew, she’s rumoured to have an abandoned daughter, and she evidently takes an interest in the family. If Bunbury represented one of the other blackmailers, Ernest’s or Algernon’s, and if there is indeed no connection between them – well, then she might have pushed him off the balcony by way of eliminating a business rival, if she were ruthless enough.’
Holmes looked at me with a modicum of respect. ‘That’s not an entirely foolish idea, Watson. Although we should be wary of jumping to the conclusion that, simply because Mrs Teville could be Violet Cardew, she therefore must be. Furthermore,’ he said, dashing my pride a little further, ‘we saw no actual evidence of blackmail. With all the letters destroyed, we have only the word of Algernon, Cecily and Ernest that they were approached at all. In Algernon’s case, it would surely be remarkable for this Mr Broadwater to hold more detailed information about him than the compendious Langdale Pike.’
Rather stubbornly, I said, ‘It would surely be natural, if one received insinuations of that kind, to want to destroy the physical evidence.’
‘Oh, I do not deny it, Watson.’ He took a deep pull on his pipe, exhaling the blue-grey smoke to join the comfortable fug filling the inside of the cab. He replied, ‘Indeed, the possibility remains that that is what happened to the late Bunbury himself.’
‘We have nothing specific to connect him to any one of these supposed blackmail attempts, though,’ I pointed out. ‘Only the name he used.’
‘True. Indeed, if blackmail is actually so prevalent among these people’s circle as we have been led to believe this evening, it is quite possible that other guests at the ball might have been among the victims. Any of them, not merely the Moncrieffs, might have thought they recognised in Bunbury their own tormentor, or his representative.’
‘Not any of them,’ I said. ‘We know from the maid’s testimony that the murderer was a woman. That is,’ I added, seeing Holmes’s raised eyebrow, ‘we know that Bunbury was talking to a lady on the balcony. I suppose she might not have been the same person who killed him.’
‘Quite right, Watson.’ Holmes was always a stickler for precision. ‘Still, I think your first instinct was correct. This was not a man’s crime.’
‘Why do you say that?’ I asked.
‘Consider, Watson. You are a man of the lower, very likely the criminal, classes, having wormed your way into a rich man’s house under an assumed name, with expectations of extracting money from him. What is your state of mind?’
I thought about this for a moment. ‘Well, resolute, I suppose. Determined. Prepared to follow my scheme through to the bitter end.’
‘R
eally? Well, perhaps you would be, my dear fellow. A lesser man, though… I fear he might be nervous, frightened even. He would know that he risked violence against his person simply by being there. I think we can take it that he would be feeling cautious, at least. And yet our Bunbury helpfully positioned himself with his back to the balustrade, and was pitched over it with a single push.’
‘You mean that he supposed he had nothing to fear from the person to whom he was talking?’
‘Indeed. Which would imply that that person was either a friend, which is improbable, or someone he considered unlikely to present a physical threat.’
I nodded. ‘Bunbury was no very impressive specimen, but he would probably have felt confident of overpowering a woman.’
‘Or he might simply not have expected violence from such a quarter. I would propose that you yourself would not expect it from a pretty young woman, such as Cecily or Gwendolen Moncrieff … or Mabel Goring.’
‘I really cannot imagine Lady Goring having any guilty secrets for a blackmailer to exploit,’ I protested. ‘The poor girl seems the very soul of honesty.’
We had arrived now at our destination. Holmes gave me a satirical look as he paid the cabman. ‘Then you believe, like Lady Bracknell, that a person’s probity can be read plainly in their outward look and manner, as their guilt might be written upon their palm? I cannot concede that, Watson. We have both known handsome, well-spoken murderers, and brutal-looking louts who proved to be as gentle as lambs.’
‘Well, of course we have,’ I grumbled, opening the front door. ‘But surely you accept that one can judge a person’s character by talking to them?’
‘That would depend entirely on how good they are at dissembling, Watson. It is a skill in which people with secrets tend to be practised.’
‘Unless they themselves are innocent of the secret, like Cecily,’ I objected as we climbed the stairs.
‘But by the same token, Mabel Goring may have a family secret that might be to her discredit were it known, but for which she bears no responsibility. Although I grant you that in that case, her husband or brother might have made for more promising prey.’
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