by David Marcum
Holmes raised his hand for calm. “Your secret is safe, sir. But your scar is distinctive. I recall reading that the press at the time gave you the title of the ‘Broken-Hearted Lover’ on account of its shape - a heart seemingly torn in two.”
Warburton sat back in his chair, his brow set in stern lines, little mollified by my friend’s explanation. “That was over sixty years ago, Mr. Holmes. I was but a callow youth, mistaking infatuation with love.”
“You must forgive my interest, Colonel,” said Holmes, throwing his spent match into the grate. “I am a student of crime in its many forms and the case had points of interest. I dare say you are not familiar with the name, Watson. Colonel - or rather Mr. Warburton, as he was at the time - had the misfortune to fall under the spell of a particularly ruthless adventuress, whose sport of preference was to set her admirers one against another. A slight was made against the lady’s reputation, the point was contested between two gentleman in time-honoured fashion, and the Colonel emerged as you see him today, scarred but wiser.”
“A small price to pay for my folly,” grunted Warburton. “I should have ended my miserable existence that very night, but I had the good fortune to be nursed by a woman who persuaded me otherwise. When she consented to be my wife, she saved my soul. I rely on her guidance still.”
Holmes cleared his throat. “When did Mrs. Warburton die?”
Our visitor eyed him steadily, surprise turning to acceptance as he slowly nodded his head.
“I’ll not ask how you know that, sir, but yes, what you say is true. My wife has been dead these past seventeen years come September. It is because of her that I have sought advice. I have had my threescore years and ten, gentleman. I have seen younger men than myself descend into senility. If I am losing my mind, then so be it. But my Kathleen tells me it is not so.”
Holmes glanced at me, his expression doubtful. Warburton had not made a promising start. He had told me none of this and, in light of this new knowledge, my former confidence was shaken.
As if acknowledging this, our visitor gave a rueful laugh.
“Oh, I know she has gone, gentleman. Call it an old man’s whim, if you will, for what I choose to believe is no man’s business but mine. But this recent experience has unsettled me. Others are involved, you see.”
“Perhaps if you tell me the circumstances,” Holmes suggested, closing his eyes and pressing his fingertips together.
The colonel paused, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. “I am a man of simple needs. My clubs, a good book, a bed for the night, and a roof over my head - what more does one need? A little over a year ago, I took a second floor rear apartment in a well-appointed house in Muswell Hill. A lawyer and his wife occupy the first floor and keep themselves to themselves. Above me, in the attic, lives Mr. Quentin Carol.”
He paused, his eyes shining with expectation.
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him?” he said, addressing both of us.
“I fear not,” I said when Holmes showed no indication of answering.
“He was a celebrated singer in his day, a basso-profoundo. He sang at La Scala, so he tells me, and entertained the crowned heads of Europe. His career ended when he developed a problem with his voice. He took to drink and, from what I can gather, now keeps body and soul together by painting insipid oils of Venice and performing popular songs at various taverns. When I first moved in, I was awoken every night in the early hours by Mr. Carol’s riotous singing. He sleeps at the front of the house, you see, so that his parlour is directly above my room. I confronted him about it and he told me it was necessary to ‘relax’ his vocal cords after a performance. After some months of disagreement, we settled on a compromise: He would sing, but it was to be a song of my choosing.”
“‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen’,” Holmes spoke up. He opened his eyes briefly to acknowledge our guest’s astonishment. “It was the natural choice, under the circumstances.”
Warburton shrugged lightly. “As you say, Mr. Holmes. Well, we settled into our routine. Every night, I would wait up for Carol to return from his professional engagements and he would sing. That is, until a week ago.”
His eyes took on a vacant expression as he looked back into his memory.
“I must have missed the sound of his footstep on the stair, for I do not remember hearing Carol return home. I had other things on my mind that night - the death of an old acquaintance, whose funeral in Norfolk I was to attend on the morrow. Still, I sat up waiting for him to sing, the same as always, but I heard nothing from him. The next morning, it was my intention to leave early for East Anglia, and I should have given no more thought to my neighbour had I not noticed a damp patch on my ceiling. It is not the first time a leak has occurred. Some months ago, when Carol was in his cups, he poured the contents of a basin over the floor, believing his rug to be on fire. Accordingly, before I left, I took myself upstairs to see what mischief he had wrought. As was his custom, the door was not locked. On hearing nothing when I knocked, I took the liberty of entering.”
He frowned a little, his bristling eyebrows hooding his pale amber eyes, deep-set in their pouches of rheumy skin.
“I found him stretched out on the floor, Mr. Holmes, quite dead. An empty bottle of whisky - one of many in the room - lay several feet away from his hand, and it was this spirit that had leaked through the floor onto my ceiling.”
“You are certain he was dead?” asked Holmes, glancing over at him.
Warburton looked affronted. “I may be old, Mr. Holmes, but I’m not a fool. I have seen enough dead men in my time to know one when I see one. Carol was cold and stiff. It seemed to me that he had died the previous evening, which would account for his failure to oblige with the expected song.”
Holmes nodded. “Quite so.”
“My first thought was to inform our landlady,” Warburton continued. “But then I met Carol’s nephew on the stair. He’s a thin, round-shouldered young fellow by the name of Matthew Elliot, who works as a caretaker at a local theatre. Never says much, but good at heart, for he visits every day, bringing food and other sundry items. He was quite overtaken by grief when I told him of his uncle’s death. Dropped his bag on the stairs and fled up to attic without ever saying a word. Perhaps I should have stayed, but I had a train to catch. Had I known then what I know now, I would have remained.”
His eyes narrowed, betraying his depth of feeling. “My return was delayed by several days on account of my catching a slight chill at the funeral. When return I did, it was to find the house and its occupants strangely unaffected by the tragedy that had befallen one of their fellow lodgers. Perhaps this was not entirely unexpected. Carol was not an affable fellow, and his drinking had caused him to fall foul of our landlady more than once. I gather there had been some former attachment, for she made more allowances for his behaviour than he deserved. It was his habit of borrowing money and always promising to pay but never managing it that caused the most discontent. We all lent him money at one time - why, I even bought one of his paintings to help his financial situation - but once bitten, twice shy, as the saying goes.”
He tapped his stick upon the floor as if to emphasise his point. “All the same, I felt I should pay my respects and so enquired of our landlady the date of Mr. Carol’s funeral.”
“‘Funeral?’ said she. ‘Good heavens, Colonel, whatever are you talking about? Mr. Carol’s as fit as a fiddle. I’ve just taken him up his lunch.’”
Warburton glanced from one to the other of us, trying to gauge our reaction. “You will understand, gentlemen, I was taken aback by this. I questioned her again, and the response was the same. When I showed her the damp patch on the ceiling, she asked me how I could be certain it had not been there before. That, I confess, would be harder to prove, given Carol’s past accidents. After that, I took matters in my own hands by going upstairs to see Carol for my
self. At my knock, I heard him call out and I entered to find him at his easel. I confess I could not believe my eyes. I made my excuses and left, certain that I had been imagining things. By the evening, I had convinced myself I was suffering from a softening of the brain. Then, as usual, I heard Carol come in at midnight. A few minutes later, he began to sing.”
In the long silence that followed, Holmes opened his eyes and gazed at the colonel expectantly.
Warburton’s expression hardened and his lips set in a firm line. “It was not ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen’, Mr. Holmes, but some vulgar drinking lyric. Every night since then, it has been the same. I dare say I have erred elsewhere in my memory, but this is the one thing of which I am certain.” He sat back in his chair. “Now, sir, what do you say to that? Am I going mad?”
Holmes summoned a sympathetic smile. “They do say, Colonel, that there is some small spice of madness in all of us.” With that, he rose briskly to his feet. “However, based on this one event, I should be unwilling to pass judgement on your state of mind.”
“Do you believe that a man can return from the dead then, Mr. Holmes?”
“That is question best directed to a theologian, Colonel Warburton. In the case of Mr. Quentin Carol, I fancy the answer is rather more prosaic.” He ran a finger over his lips, his eyes clouded with thoughts. “Have you had a disagreement with the gentleman of late?”
The colonel shook his head. “I have passed barely two words with the fellow this month. We rub along quite tolerably without the need for lengthy dialogue.”
Holmes gave him a sharp look. “You said you had spoken to him after your return.”
Warburton frowned, the furrowed lines of his brow resembling the gnarled bark of an ancient oak. “That is true,” he replied. “He was more reticent. He did not turn from his easel and made only a mumbled reply. That is his way, on occasion. One makes allowances for the artistic temperament.”
“Quite so.” He paused before framing his next question with what seemed to me the utmost delicacy. “Is there anyone in the house who can verify your story, Colonel?”
Our visitor gave a grunt of laughter. “Then you do have your doubts, despite your assurances to the contrary. Well, now, there is a young fellow studying medicine across the hall from me. In the past, he has told me he has heard Carol singing, but being at a greater distance from his parlour than me, could not make out the words. He has gone home for the summer in any case, so his testimony will be of little use, Mr. Holmes. The lawyer and his wife are abroad, leaving only myself and the landlady in the house as witnesses.”
“What of Mr. Elliot?”
Warburton coughed and shifted in his seat. “He denies we ever had our conversation on the stair on the morning of my departure. Indeed, he has kept up his old routine in visiting his uncle. Our landlady takes up his meals and every night he sings. And yet,” he added with conviction, “I know I saw him dead.”
Holmes had been studying the ceiling with the greatest of care before glancing back at the colonel. “I should very much like to hear Mr. Carol sing. If we called round tonight, would you be able to accommodate us?”
“I shall settle it with the landlady.”
“Capital!” Holmes helped the colonel to his feet and ushered him towards the door. “In the matter of my fee-”
“Get to the bottom of this business and I’ll see you are not out of pocket for your time, Mr. Holmes. I am not without means. I live on the second floor through choice, not necessity. The view, you see, is worth more to me than the status of first floor rooms.”
“I did not doubt it, Colonel. My only wonder is that you choose not to live nearer to your family.”
Warburton pursed his lips. “You are not to know, sir, but my only son died in the Crimea. Save a distant relative of my wife who made himself known recently, there is no one else.”
“He did not win your favour, I take it?”
“He did not, Mr. Holmes. This fellow, Charles Sweeting, came sniffing around several months ago. He claimed that Kathleen was his grandmother’s sister and he was keen to tell me all about his family.” Warburton snorted. “He wants money, I dare say, or a mention in my will. Well, he will have to wait or find himself a better position than a junior accountant with the General Post Office! Now, gentlemen, good day to you both.”
“Until this evening, Colonel,” said Holmes. Leaving Mrs. Hudson to show our guest to the door, he turned to me. “Watson, are you busy this afternoon?”
“There is a public lecture I had hoped to attend at the College of Surgeons.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows. “Well, if you have better things to do-”
“I can miss it. If you wish for my assistance, that is.”
“By all means. This case is not without interest. I could give you fifty parallels in as many countries.” He vanished into his room, only to emerge a moment later carrying a carpet bag into which he was placing two disreputable-looking hats. “We must avoid seeing patterns where none exist. That will be our chief difficultly, I do believe. Other than that, the matter is a simple one.”
“Very simple, I should have said,” I replied, feeling somewhat crestfallen. “I did not know about the colonel’s wife. He told me she had sent him. I did not realise she was dead.”
“When I encounter a man smelling strongly of Old Walker’s Curly Cut Tobacco, either he does not care about offending the sensibilities of his spouse, or such consideration is no longer applicable to his circumstances. I discounted the former for obvious reasons.” A smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Your first instinct was a good one, my dear fellow. I found the colonel to be lucid and entirely rational.”
“I admit I initially found him to be plausible. And he was very specific about certain details. But all that talk about his wife, Holmes...”
“A little eccentric, I grant you. But he is well aware she is dead. I dare say by keeping her memory alive, it makes his loneliness a little easier to bear. As to the case, I believe a deception has been perpetrated upon Colonel Warburton, the purpose of which suggests several possibilities.”
I shook my head. “I fear I agree with your earlier argument. Surely it is more probable that the colonel has erred.”
“There is something to be said for the perfection of simplicity,” said Holmes, taking up his hat. “However, it does not follow that the only alternative is Mr. Carol’s resurrection. Now, come, Watson, stir from your chair. We have to be at St. Martin’s-le-Grand before Mr. Sweeting is homeward bound!”
We took a cab heading eastwards and a little after quarter-to-five pulled up outside the imposing porticoed edifice of the General Post Office, a modern day temple to the efficiency of the postal system. This near to closing time, a queue of impatient and grumbling souls lined the wall by the poste restante counter. Their mutterings increased when we walked past them directly to the window marked “Enquiries”.
The clerk, a small, twittering man with thick glasses and balding pate, barely lifted his head from a scrutiny of his ledger to acknowledge us.
“The queue is over there, gentlemen,” said he, gesturing to the line of disgruntled people. “Whatever it is, the staff at the counter can help you. I cannot.”
“But you do not know what we want,” I remonstrated with him.
“Then it would be remiss of me to attempt to offer you assistance. Over there, gentlemen, please. We are closing in ten minutes.”
He returned to his book, only to lay down his pen and sigh theatrically when he saw that we would not be deterred.
“What is it you want?” he demanded.
“I understand Mr. Charles Sweeting works here.”
The man’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “I am familiar with the name.”
“We wish to speak with him.”
“Regarding?”
“It is a family matter.”
His mouth fell open. “Oh, good heavens, it isn’t his good lady wife, is it? She had a little girl two days ago and I know Mr. Sweeting mentioned she was poorly. Stay here, gentlemen, I’ll fetch him directly.”
With that, he scurried away from his desk.
“That was fortunate,” I noted.
Holmes chuckled. “I dare say he would not have been so obliging had I said it concerned Sweeting’s great-uncle-in-law. I allowed him to draw his own conclusions. Given that he wears his wife’s ring on his watch chain, his assumption was a natural one.”
“A widower? I had not noticed.”
Further discussion was unnecessary, for the clerk had returned, bringing with him Charles Sweeting. A young, sallow-faced fellow of about thirty years of age, tiredness hung under his eyes, which were nonetheless bright with anxiety. His immediate concern was for his wife, but Holmes ushered him aside, away from the inquisitive clerk.
“It is not your wife, Mr. Sweeting,” said Holmes. He introduced himself and then me. “We are here on account of Colonel Warburton.”
The relief that washed over Sweeting’s face gave way to puzzlement and his brow furrowed. “What need has he of a private detective?”
“He has been having difficulty with his upstairs neighbour, Mr. Quentin Carol. Has he told you of the gentleman?”
Sweeting nodded. “The drunken singer. But I thought that was settled. Or so he told me.” His shoulders sagged. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Holmes, I am ashamed to say I wasn’t listening as closely as I should have been to his tales. I have had other concerns of late. My wife was expecting our fifth child. I only learned of the colonel’s existence several months ago. My great-aunt had married him against the wishes of her family and they had cut her off. He wasn’t pleased to see me. I didn’t let it deter me, though.”
“The prospect of a generous inheritance overcomes all hostility.”