Mrs Winterbourne laughed at my discomfiture. ‘How delightful to see a gentleman so familiar with the Queensberry Rules! But Mrs Moncrieff and I are old friends, Dr Watson. I don’t think we have any need to trouble the dear marquess.’
‘I had no idea that you and that nobleman were acquainted, Mrs Winterbourne,’ Gwendolen calmly replied. ‘Although he has been widowed a short while, I am told his recent decline has been entirely mental. He might live many years yet, so I fear he is unlikely to be the kind of gentleman whose admiration you would wish to cultivate.’
Now thoroughly out of my depth, I looked to Holmes for assistance. He was standing by the writing desk which sat open by the window. As I glanced at him, away from our hostess and her guest, who were now entirely preoccupied with one another, I saw that the writing desk held a small pile of pieces of paper. Holmes had purloined a single sheet, which he now folded and pocketed.
Oblivious, Mrs Winterbourne laughed again, this time in genuine amusement. ‘You are quite keeping up the family tradition of crushing repartee, Mrs Moncrieff. I do not think, though, that you have quite matched your mother’s mastery of indifference to the import of others’ remarks.’
Gwendolen said, ‘I am pleased to see how your own conversation has improved since the foolish prattling of our schooldays, Mrs Winterbourne. I notice, for instance, that your consonants are considerably better enunciated.’
‘Holmes,’ I said urgently, ‘I think perhaps we’d better leave.’
‘Of course, Watson,’ Holmes replied, as genially as if the conversational temperature in the room were many degrees warmer. ‘It has been most pleasing to renew our acquaintance, Mrs Moncrieff, Mrs Winterbourne.’
Not for the first time, I hurried from the room, and from the Moncrieffs’ house, disconcerted and discomfited. Holmes, however, showed no unease at all.
‘The notepaper is identical,’ he told me, as soon as we were outside the house. ‘Any of the house’s visitors or occupants could have abstracted it from the bureau as readily as I.’
He showed me the sheet as we strolled along the square away from Number 149. ‘There is no name in the heading. A household’s notepaper is normally printed in several variations – versions bearing the names of the master and mistress of the house, and of any family members residing with them, and some which carry no name but the address alone. Paper like this is intended for guests who wish to write a letter while at the house.’
I said, ‘But surely Gwendolen might have used the generic paper instead of her own?’
Holmes nodded. ‘She would hardly have identified herself in writing to a blackmailer.’
‘But for all we know, Cecily might have written it,’ I observed, ‘or a guest like Mrs Winterbourne, or a servant like Dora.’ Indeed, this case had been full of women, from the redoubtable Lady Bracknell to her younger relatives and their widowed friends; not to mention Mrs Nepcote, who, while not widowed, was surely likely to become so at an eminently remarriageable age.
‘Not all servants are literate, even the indoor kind,’ Holmes reminded me absently. ‘But once again we have more information than before, and that never goes amiss. And now, I think, to Lowndes Square, as we are in the area.’
‘Are we to talk to Cecily next?’ I asked, but Holmes smiled enigmatically and set off at a stride towards the west exit from the square.
Again, the walk to Algernon and Cecily’s house from Ernest and Gwendolen’s took us less than ten minutes. Holmes’s knock was answered once more by Algernon’s solemn-faced butler, Lane.
‘Mr and Mrs Moncrieff are at home, gentlemen,’ he told us. ‘Shall I show you up?’
‘Not today, Lane, thank you,’ Holmes said breezily. ‘It is you who we have come to see. May we step into your pantry, perhaps?’
Lane frowned in elaborate concern. ‘Really, sir, I think I should inform Mr Moncrieff that you are here. I am sure there is nothing that I can tell you that he would not.’
Holmes said, ‘Oh, I am perfectly certain that that is untrue, Lane. Will you admit us, or shall we stand here conversing loudly until we attract attention from the rest of the household?’
Lane looked behind him in alarm. ‘This is most irregular, sir,’ he observed. ‘But it seems you leave me no choice.’
He took us through to his pantry, a snug room where the family silverware was kept under lock and key in glass-fronted cabinets. As is often the case, the room also functioned as Lane’s sitting room, and curtains concealed a further area in which he presumably slept. We settled ourselves in the three stiff-backed chairs that stood by the tiny fireplace.
Though the butlers in such distinguished households are practised paragons of imperturbability, I thought that Lane’s studied gravity concealed a certain nervousness at having the world’s most famous detective so unexpectedly occupying his private space. Although I had no idea why we were there, I tried to reassure him with a friendly smile, which he regarded with unblinking disdain.
Lane cleared his throat. ‘Mr Holmes, I would appreciate knowing what this visit concerns.’
‘You have been with your master for some time, haven’t you?’ Holmes asked him.
The butler replied, ‘Not so very long, sir. As you know, Mr Moncrieff is a relatively young gentleman. I entered his service when he came up to town from Oxford, some five years ago. Before that I was in the employment of a Mr Brooklands.’
‘But I imagine he has confided in you a great deal during that time. Especially, perhaps, before his marriage.’
Lane said, ‘In my experience, confiding in their manservants is often the habit of young bachelor gentlemen.’
‘It is perhaps rash of them,’ suggested Holmes.
‘I have heard others in my profession express that opinion,’ Lane said gravely, ‘often with detailed examples. It is essential, however, for a young gentleman to find someone whom he can trust absolutely, and we are privileged to assist him in the process of elimination.’
‘And have you been discreet with Mr Moncrieff’s confidences, Lane?’ my friend asked.
Lane hesitated. ‘Before I answer that question, sir, I should like to know which answer is likely to cause me the lesser distress in the future.’
Holmes smiled thinly. ‘Your candour does you credit, Lane.’
‘I find it preferable to honesty, sir.’
‘Mr Moncrieff, on the other hand, has apparently served himself less well. At least, he has been approached by somebody who claims to hold information that could discredit him. And since the knowledge among his circle that he was in the habit of concealing his youthful exploits under the guise of visits to his invalid friend Mr Bunbury has done little towards that end, we must assume that there is something more disreputable to be found in the detail of those affairs.’
‘I believe that might be a safe assumption,’ Lane said guardedly.
‘Allow me to assure you that my present interest is not in those details,’ Holmes told him. ‘I would not wish to tax your loyalties, Lane.’
‘I fear they could scarcely bear any increase in taxation, sir.’
Holmes said, ‘While Mr Moncrieff’s exploits presumably involved other individuals not of his circle, a man with the wit to invent the Bunbury alibi would also have the basic common sense to conceal his identity from such individuals. Only somebody close to him would be in a position to know both what he had been doing and that it was he who had been doing it.’
‘Regrettably, sir, your argument is unassailable,’ Lane agreed ruefully.
‘So, Lane, pray tell me the answer to my question. An honest one, if you please.’
Carefully, Lane said, ‘There are, as you surmise, certain parties who have been in receipt of information from certain quarters about Mr Moncrieff’s former activities.’
‘Those quarters being these ones?’ Holmes gestured around us at Lane’s abode.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I shall require more particulars,’ my friend said. ‘The whole story, if
you please.’
Lane sighed. ‘I apologise in advance for the dullness of this reminiscence, but I was once married. The occurrence arose from a series of misunderstandings between a young person, myself, and ultimately her father, brothers and uncles. It was not an outcome in which I found any great satisfaction, and I took steps to ensure that its consequences for me would be as limited as possible.’
‘I understand your meaning, Lane,’ Holmes said, ‘although I can hardly congratulate you on it.’
‘No, sir. Despite what one sometimes hears, it was not an occasion for congratulation. However, I believe that the young person involved, and the still younger person who ultimately eventuated, have since been well looked after by their vigilant relatives. As you might suppose, I would be most reluctant to disrupt that cheerful family situation in any way. So you may imagine my dismay when, some months ago, I was approached by a party who seemed keen to make them aware of my identity and whereabouts.’
‘This person already knew of this family, and their connection with you?’ Holmes asked.
‘Yes, sir. Another individual, who knew me at the time, had recently visited the house as a coachman, having gained employment in that capacity with Sir Clapham Woods, and recognised me. I believe it is from him that this party had gained his information.’
‘Did the party have a name?’ Holmes asked. ‘Could you describe him?’
‘He gave his name as Mr Broadwater.’ Briefly, Lane outlined the scarred, broken-nosed, cauliflower-eared appearance of a man clearly matching the bruiser Algernon knew by that name. ‘He told me that, if I wanted my former connections to persist in their happy state of ignorance, I should let him know any regrettable secrets I might be aware of from Mr Moncrieff’s past. Fortunately, I had a considerable stock of them to hand.’
I found myself unable to stay silent any longer. I burst out, ‘You mean that you betrayed your employer’s confidence to escape being forced to support the wife and child you abandoned?’
The butler nodded gravely. ‘In a nutshell, sir.’
‘I see,’ I said, rather lamely. ‘Well, that’s despicable behaviour, Lane.’
‘So I have been led to believe, sir.’
He turned his attention back to Holmes, who asked patiently, ‘Did you have the impression that this Mr Broadwater was acting alone?’
‘Since you mention it, sir, I am certain that he was no more the chief instigator of the affair than I was its chief object. He referred more than once to a principal to whom he was answerable.’
‘And did you ever meet him?’ Holmes asked, with the lightest of emphasis on the final word.
Lane corrected him at once. ‘Her, sir. Broadwater always referred to his principal using feminine terms. I regret to say that that was all that I was able to learn.’
‘So there is a woman behind all this!’ I said excitedly.
‘So it would seem, Watson. Well, Lane,’ said Holmes. ‘What you have told me puts me in rather a difficult position, doesn’t it? I should inform your employer of your disloyalty. Indeed, since the information you supplied was used for criminal purposes, I should inform the police. Why are you smiling, Lane? This is a serious matter.’
Lane did his best to look grave again. He said, ‘I am sorry, sir. In my experience, sir, when gentlemen tell servants what they should do, it is invariably because their intention is to do otherwise.’
‘I see.’ I could see that Holmes was trying not to smile himself now. ‘Well, Lane, given your employer’s character I can see how you might have reached that conclusion, but I wouldn’t rely on it. In this instance, you are fortunate enough to be correct. I am still working out the possible consequences of this whole affair, but I may need to call upon your help further before it is over. I presume that I may rely upon your cooperation?’
‘I shall do my best, as always, to give satisfaction,’ Lane replied gloomily.
With our permission, he showed us out through the servants’ entrance so that we would not accidentally bump into Algernon or Cecily. As we were leaving, I asked, ‘I say, Lane, do you know Durrington, Major Nepcote’s gardener?’
‘I seldom associate with my employer’s brother’s friends’ gardeners, sir,’ said Lane. ‘But if we should happen to meet, I shall certainly remember you to him.’
We walked to the Knightsbridge Road, where we hailed a cab to return us to Baker Street. As we passed from the grandeur of Belgravia back through the antique opulence of Mayfair and into the shabbier gentility of our own district of Marylebone, I asked Holmes, ‘Do you think it’s the same woman as the one who wrote that note to Durrington? The woman on the balcony? Could one person be behind all of this?’
‘Perhaps,’ is all he would say, and I could see that he was deep in contemplation.
We arrived at our rooms in Baker Street to find Inspector Gregson pacing impatiently back and forth across the sitting room. He bristled with suppressed excitement, which upon our appearance burst forth into full expression.
‘He’s confessed!’ he cried, brandishing several sheets of typewritten paper at us.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A WOMAN OF SOME IMPORTANCE
‘Lord Illingworth?’ Holmes asked at once.
‘None other,’ confirmed Gregson. ‘This is an admission of guilt, or as good as one, signed in his own hand and posted to Scotland Yard on the day he went missing.’
‘So you still do not have him in custody?’
‘No.’ Gregson drooped slightly. ‘I’m sorry to say we are nowhere close to it. But this is the last of the evidence we needed to confirm his guilt.’
Holmes took the letter from Gregson and examined it minutely, fingering it, sniffing it and holding it up to the light. He pronounced that it had been typed upon a high-quality brand of paper favoured by the civil and diplomatic service, using a nearly new Remington Number Six machine.
‘We had come to that conclusion ourselves,’ Gregson replied irritably. ‘Of course, the first thing we did after reading it was to put it next to the samples we took from Illingworth’s study. The paper stock and the typewriting both match.’
Holmes said, ‘The letters on the right-hand centre of the keyboard have been struck with some force. Is that in line with Lord Illingworth’s habits?’
Gregson looked even more irritated. ‘We can check that, of course.’
Holmes said, ‘It is no great matter. It might indicate intensity of emotion, or merely a need for haste. You say it was posted on Tuesday?’
Gregson nodded. ‘We assume that he wrote it following the ball at the Moncrieffs’, and posted it before absconding later that day.’
Holmes nodded gravely. ‘He posted it, I would estimate, at a little after half past one o’clock, at the post office at the corner of Piccadilly and Albermarle Street, while wearing a pinstripe suit and a navy ulster.’ Knowing that my friend had come by this knowledge by nothing more miraculous than simple observation, and indeed that I could have told him the same myself, I was amused by the expression of astonishment and awe that crossed Gregson’s face.
Aloud, however, the inspector simply said, ‘But what do you make of the substance, Mr Holmes?’
Holmes read it aloud. It was more a statement than a letter, and it opened abruptly.
The life that I have led is one that would be judged wicked in the eyes of the world, were they ever to be granted the opportunity to behold it. To deny it would be both futile and tiresome, and while I am frequently the former, I have striven never to become the latter.
Such a Puritanical verdict would be equally tiresome, however, for moral generalities and other old-fashioned theories hold little interest for me. The only disgrace is to betray one’s own ideals, and mine are the joy, the beauty and the colour to be found in an unfettered life. It follows, then, that the only sin of which I could be guilty is to be dismal, ugly or drab.
I fear that I must now confess that I have been all three.
When I speak of my indifference towa
rds the judgement of others, I refer of course to human society at large. Society in its more elevated sense, that enlightened echelon of English public life that my peers and I occupy, is another matter entirely. Their opinion of me has a very practical effect upon my freedom to live the life of which I speak.
It is indeed true that my acquaintances consider me very wicked, but in Society a reputation for wickedness is the cause of fascination, not of revulsion, for reputation is a sketch, a mere cartoon of reality. What might be shocking if we saw it in bright colour or solid form, given full and vivid life by the skill of the painter or sculptor, appears harmless when rendered in mere lines of pencil, by however great an artist. Think of Leonardo’s drawings of anatomical dissections, and compare their attenuated fascination with the ghastly effect of even a glimpse of the hideous reality.
‘I have to say this does not read very like a confession, Gregson,’ Holmes noted, interrupting himself, ‘despite the allusion to some offence of a nature so aesthetic as to elude me entirely. Does he eventually mention the murder?’
Gregson sighed. ‘I suggest that you carry on reading,’ he said.
Holmes continued.
I know my reputation well. It is barely exaggerated, and in places falls far short of the reality. I have taken my pleasures where I chose, heedless of the injury to others. I have worked my will upon women who were beautiful, brilliant and blameless, and on exceptional occasions all three. I have publicly disowned my dalliances and their consequences, though privately I believe I have been generous enough to settle at least some of the grievances so incurred.
Of none of this am I ashamed, nor do I apologise for it.
A few episodes reached a less satisfactory conclusion, however, and recent events have conspired to return one of these in particular to my mind.
I met Violet Cardew more than twenty years ago. Unmarried at twenty-two, she was quite the prettiest trinket I had seen, and I was determined to make her my plaything. I was but twenty-five myself, and had no expectations of the peerage into which I would come some thirteen years later, but even so I was well practised in making myself agreeable to women. It took some work to achieve, but eventually Violet was persuaded to elope with me.
Sherlock Holmes--The Spider's Web Page 19