by David Marcum
“None, I’m afraid. I wish it were that simple.”
“Perhaps it is that simple. Why not simply ask him if he is Andrew?”
“I’ve wanted to for ages, but if I did, and he actually is Alec, it would crush him. He is having a difficult time enough dealing with his brother’s death.”
“And if he is Andrew?”
“Then he could simply lie. He was an actor, and never as honest in his speech as my husband.”
For a moment she shook, and I was concerned, for Holmes abominates emotion during a case. However, she mastered herself, and bade him continue.
“Do you think you could recognize a false moustache?”
“I think so, but Andrew was very good at such things. He kept a make-up table for his creations.”
“Kept or keeps, Mrs. Urquhart? In your heart of hearts, do you believe he is or isn’t your husband?”
“I’m not saying I believe, Mr. Holmes, but I very much suspect he is not. If it is so, has he killed his own brother in order to possess everything, all of it, including me?”
“That is what Watson and I intend to find out. Did Andrew Urquhart seem in any way prone to violence?”
She considered the matter carefully, tapping at her lip in thought.
“He was not normally as forceful as Alec in speech, but he was more guarded. Who really knew what he was like privately? I will say this, he was not without strength. Some of the repairs he made required lifting heavy wood and rock. Just because his interest was in theater did not mean he was physically weak.”
“How did Andrew die, if, indeed, it was Andrew? What was the coroner’s verdict?”
“It was ruled an accident. Misadventure was the term he used. He fell coming down the staircase and broke his neck.”
Holmes turned to me and raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, a fall down stairs can frequently result in a broken neck. The head is thrown into all kinds of contortions by tumbling against hard surfaces,” I told them.
Holmes turned back to our guest and tented his fingers in front of him.
“And when you say you woke to find your husband staring at you, how exactly was he staring? Did he seem menacing, or troubled, or did he appear angry? What was your impression?”
“It was really remarkable. First of all, his nightshirt and hair were rumpled from sleep. The look he gave me I can only describe as fierce. I almost feared for my life. I would have tried to soothe him, but he suddenly turned and left the room, as if in a dream.”
“I see,” Holmes responded. “Tell me, Mrs. Urquhart, since you first met your husband, up until your arrival here today, did you find the inhabitants of Urquhart Manse to be secretive? Are they, for example, cut off from all their neighbors? Did you suspect that they were colluding together to keep some fact or facts away from you?”
“Oh, very much so, Mr. Holmes. That is exactly how I felt, and feel even now.”
“Then Mrs. Urquhart, I accept your case. How amenable is the man you live with to accepting visitors?”
“Not at all, sir. As Mrs. Petrie says, ‘we keep ourselves to ourselves.’ However, the Old Kent Road is often used by hikers. I believe there are guides for walking in the area.”
“Capital! Do not be surprised if a pair of tired and footsore travellers suddenly appear at your door this evening.”
“I shall look forward to it. What of your fee?”
“I shall send a billet afterward. Nothing calamitous, I assure you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson.”
I showed her to the door. When I returned, Holmes already had the Baedecker in hand and was looking up the railway time tables to Tunbridge Wells.
“Have you anything pressing in your surgery this afternoon or tomorrow?” he asked.
“Would it matter if I did?”
“I’m sure it would to someone.”
He rubbed his hands in anticipation of an interesting case. Then he stuffed shag tobacco into his old oily clay and lit it.
“Surely this fellow can’t think he can kill his own brother in order to take his wife, pretty as she was,” I told him.
“Did you find her pretty? I hadn’t noticed. I’m sure there is far more to it than wife-stealing, Watson, but it is no good theorizing before the facts. Let us have a good lunch and then prepare for a journey to Kent.”
After lunch we changed into clothes more fitting for the country, along with stout walking shoes. We loaded a pair of rucksacks with enough clothing for a few days, and I chose a stout blackthorn stick and my old service revolver, just in case. We were at Charing Cross Station near one, in order to catch the South Eastern Railway commuter train south. I had no scruples about abandoning the hot, torpid city for rural Kent on such a beautiful May afternoon.
Arriving in Tunbridge Wells, Holmes purchased an ordinance map and a copy of A WALKING GUIDE TO HISTORIC KENT. Holmes does not take exercise, but he had a nervous, energetic constitution that was stimulated by a walk of a few miles. As for myself, my war wound was always aided by a marathon walk in the country, and my lungs invigorated by the air of the south coast.
We took an omnibus out of the old royal town and alighted again in the country a couple of miles from Urquhart Manse. Rather than growing tired, we were both enervated by the walk, and the anticipation of what we would find when we got there. Finally, we spotted the house, set back from the road by a tall wrought-iron fence. Its yard had been let go to ruin. The building was a horseshoe shaped affair, with both wings facing the back, and a portico in the front. The bones of the old house were still strong, but the surface had been weathered by years of neglect. It nearly had the look of an old haunted house. I could see how a new bride brought to such a house would find it daunting.
“This I where you turn up lame, old fellow,” Holmes said.
I gave a cry of pain and removed my left shoe. Holmes leant me a shoulder and helped me to the front door, where we knocked loudly. After a few minutes a small, sharp-faced woman answered, looking at us with suspicion.
“I say,” Holmes began. “My friend has just turned an ankle in the rut in front of your house. I think he needs medical attention.”
“Away wi’ ye!” Mrs. Petrie cried. “We need nane of your kind here!”
“Who is it?” a voice I recognized as our client’s asked.
“A pair of vagabonds by the look of ‘em,” the housekeeper replied.
“My friend is hurt!” Holmes called out. “He needs a doctor!”
“Oh, dear,” Mary Urquhart said, and a moment later appeared at the door behind the housekeeper. “What has happened?”
“He has turned an ankle, ma’am,” Mrs. Petrie said. “He can walk back to town well enough. It’s probably a scheme to bilk us for money.”
“What is it?” a man asked, appearing behind both women. He was tall, with a head of red hair and blue eyes. He wore a moustache. It could only be Urquhart, though which one was still a matter of dispute.
“This poor man has fallen and injured himself. I think he must get off his ankle.”
“We don’t take visitors here,” Urquhart replied.
“But he has injured himself, probably in one of the ruts in front of the house. You really must do something about them, Alec.”
“No visitors,” he repeated.
“Such nonsense!” Mrs. Urquhart said. “Come in, gentlemen, and rest yourselves. No doubt you have walked for miles. Mrs. Petrie, bring some tea.”
“I doubt there is much call for that,” the housekeeper said.
“Mary,” Urquhart warned.
“Alec,” she implored. “They are guests in our home, our very first, in fact. I hope you will see that they are given proper hospitality. I would not want to be embarrassed in my own home.”
Confro
nted by an obstinate wife and two strangers expecting him to do the right thing, he finally relented.
“Very well. Come in, gentlemen. Forgive my rude country manners. I’m Alec Urquhart.”
“Sherlock Holmes,” my friend said, pumping his hand.
“John Watson.”
I limped forward and fell into a stuffed chair.
“We were taking a Kentish tour, with the aid of a guidebook,” Holmes said. “Watson and I are solicitors in London. My friend just had to get out of the City, you know.”
“Fresh air,” I muttered, as I slowly raised my “injured” ankle to a hassock. “I don’t think it is broken.”
“Then you’d best be on your way!” the housekeeper called from the doorway.
“Tea, Mrs. Petrie!” Mary Urquhart insisted.
Grumbling, the woman complied. She was a dour looking older woman, thin and bony, but with a will of iron. Obviously she had been given the run of the house, and had no problem offering her opinions. Mrs. Urquhart was challenged to keep her in her place.
“I work in the City,” Alec went on.
“Oh, really? Where?” Holmes asked.
“Carr and Threadgill, in the Commercial Road.”
“A stockbroker!” Holmes said to me. “We must be careful with this one, Watson. A canny firm by its reputation.”
“It is. How far did you hope to get today?” Urquhart asked.
“Wadhurst.”
“As far as that? I’m afraid you wouldn’t have reached it unless you walked all night.”
“You disappoint me exceedingly. Is there an inn nearby?”
“Not within five miles, I’m afraid.”
“Alec!” Mary Urquhart cried. “Invite them to spend the night! We have plenty of rooms.”
“I don’t think that would be appropriate, being in mourning for Andrew as we are.”
“But Mr. Watson is injured! He cannot walk anywhere, and there is no way to hire a vehicle at this time of night.”
Urquhart looked about to argue, but after staring into the eyes of our client for a few moments he finally relented.
“I shall have to inform Mrs. Petrie.”
“I’ll do it,” Mrs. Urquhart said. With a twinkle in her eye she left the room.
“We regret imposing ourselves upon you, sir,” Holmes stated, after she was gone. “Watson and I could pay-”
“I’m sure that will not be necessary,” came the reply. Urquhart’s pale features colored.
Mrs. Petrie showed us to our rooms with as little grace as she dared. Dinner consisted of overcooked beef and undercooked potatoes. Afterward, our host treated us to whisky-and-sodas.
“Have you lived here long, sir?” Holmes asked.
“For generations, Mr. Holmes. My ancestor came south among the Sassenach with James 1st. Our family has been here even since.”
“These old houses require a good deal of repair. There is always something breaking or needing to be fixed.”
“You have no idea. It seems at times that the house is falling down about our ears. My dear brother Andrew was doing his best to maintain the house, but alas, he is gone now. He met with an accident on the staircase.”
“We are sorry to hear that,” Holmes said.
“Yes, he is gone, right when we needed him most.”
Urquhart seemed disinclined to discuss the matter further. We left him brooding and staring into the fire.
“What are your impressions, Watson?” Holmes asked, when we were in our room.
“If the man is a villain, he is a better actor than I would have credited. What did you think of the moustache?”
“It appears genuine, but a trifle sparse. He could have grown it in under a false one within a week.”
Holmes raised his arms to the ceiling and formed fists in frustration.
“How I wish I could have seen the brothers together, side by side. They say twins can be identical, but really, no two people are exactly alike. The smallest blemish, spot or mole can distinguish one from the other.”
“That housekeeper is a bit of work,” I said. “I wonder if she is naturally averse to strangers, or whether there a reason she wants us out of here.”
“Let us not forget Mrs. Urquhart waking to find a man glaring at her, no matter which brother it was.”
“You know, Holmes, I suspect it might be somnambulism. If so, I suspect her life is in danger. Such cases can lead to violence, particularly if disturbed. If his brother tried to wake him on the stair, for example, just such an outcome might occur. But what are we to do?”
“We must wait until the family settles for the night, then go exploring.”
“The East Wing!” I cried, rubbing my hands together.
“Yes, Watson, I am particularly interested in the East Wing.”
Holmes and I were old hands at waiting for the stroke of midnight. We slipped off our shoes and made our way slowly up the grand staircase to the first floor. Holmes went ahead, feeling for every creaking stair in our path, while I brought up the rear with my “twisted ankle”. We were taking a risk of being caught, but I knew I had my trusty revolver with me, if worse came to worst.
The East Wing was a shambles, with falling plaster, peeling wallpaper, and moldy old carpets. All the rooms, which numbered four to a side in this wing, were dark, save for one at the far end. The floor was ancient and dusty, but I noticed several footmarks going back and forth. Holmes measured his foot against one.
“Size ten,” he said. “Very near the size of the Brothers Urquhart. One of them must have come here recently, but for what purpose I cannot say.”
We began to open the various doors in the wing. All were unlocked. Some were bedrooms untenanted, and smelling of damp and wood rot. A few were in need of repair, and one had tools and paint tins on the floor. Holmes stepped forward and ran his finger across a lid, it came away covered in dust.
“So far, Mrs. Urquhart’s opinion of her brother-in-law’s carpentry skills have been confirmed. But hush!”
We heard a voice coming from the one room in the wing with light gleaming from under the door. It was at the far end, the farthest from the staircase. Why would a housekeeper want to be so far from her kitchen, I asked myself. I could not mistake Mrs. Petrie’s shrill and peevish tone coming from the room. To whom was she speaking? From what I could make out, she was giving someone her litany of complaints about the new visitors and the lady of the house. I strained my ear but could hear no response whatsoever. Was it herself she was speaking to, or a dog, or was someone else in the room? I began to imagine all sorts of things. Something was very wrong in this house that Mary Urquhart had come to. It was far from the ideal home a bride expects upon her marriage.
We were progressing down the hall, in order to press our ears against the wall of the housekeeper’s room, when I accidentally trod upon a board that squeaked. Holmes nipped behind an old standing clock, while I jumped back into the dark recess of a door frame. We were just in time. Mrs. Petrie stepped out with a raised candle and looked about her. She had a shotgun broken open over her arm. Our seeming advantage evaporated.
“Who’s there?” she cried. “No tricks, now!”
We dared not move. She looked about and raised her lamp higher, but did not come further into the hall. If it were a dog she was speaking to, she might unleash it, and if the rest of the house was any indication, it would not be a border collie. However, she closed the door and apparently did not give us a second thought. After a moment or two Holmes stepped from behind the clock and gestured for me to follow him.
“That was a close call,” I said, when we were out of the wing again.
“Quite,” Holmes said. “The last thing I expected was that Mrs. Petrie would be so heavily armed.”
“What do we do now? Go back
to our room?”
“No. We’ll be forced to leave in the morning, so we must use our time wisely. I wish to examine the stairs where Alec Urquhart’s body was found.”
So saying, he pulled a small dark lantern from his pocket and lit it with a pack of vestas. Then he carried it with him and led the way to the staircase.
“Don’t you mean Andrew Urquhart?” I asked.
“Do I? That remains to be seen.
Reaching the bottom of the stairway, Holmes immediately went down upon his hands and knees, examining the carpet with the aid of the candle. At one point he crawled down the steps like a tomcat, examining the decayed wood of the steps. When he reached the floor where the body came to rest after the fatal fall, he even went down upon his stomach, examining the floor with a pocket lens. Finally, he sniffed the carpet thoroughly.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Soap,” He answered. “Scented with bay rum.”
“Shaving soap!”
“Precisely. I think we can both conjecture how it got there.”
“I’m surprised the local inspector didn’t notice it.”
“I’d have been surprised if he had,” Holmes said.
“Where do we go from here?” I asked, as he stood and stretched his lean frame.
“To our beds. If you will play watchman for the first few hours, and listen for any movement in the house, I will stay awake until dawn. We must be ready when Mrs. Petrie comes down for breakfast.”
“Ready to do what?” I asked.
“Oh, I have a small diversion planned, but in order for it to work, we must separate the housekeeper from her rifle.”
My three hour watch was uneventful, and after I shook Holmes awake, I lay down upon my bed and dozed while fully dressed. I was awakened at dawn by a rooster somewhere nearby, reminding me how far we were from the cosmopolitan streets of London. When I sat up in bed, I found Holmes sitting in a chair with his knees drawn up, tobacco burning in his clay pipe.
“Are you ready?” he asked eagerly.
“Is Mrs. Petrie stirring?”
“She has just gone to the kitchen to light the stove. Shall we explore the East Wing without her presence?”