Morse’s Greatest Mystery and other stories

A case of mis-identity

Long as had been my acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, I had seldom heard him refer to his early life; and the only knowledge I ever gleaned of his family history sprang from the rare visits of his famous brother, Mycroft. On such occasions, our visitor invariably addressed me with courtesy, but also (let me be honest!) with some little condescension. He was — this much I knew — by some seven years the senior in age to my great friend, and was a founder member of the Diogenes Club, that peculiar institution whose members are ever forbidden to converse with one another. Physically, Mycroft was stouter than his brother (I put the matter in as kindly a manner as possible); but the single most striking feature about him was the piercing intelligence of his eyes — greyish eyes which appeared to see beyond the range of normal mortals. Holmes himself had commented upon this last point: “My dear Watson, you have recorded — and I am flattered by it — something of my own powers of observation and deduction. Know, however, that Mycroft has a degree of observation somewhat the equal of my own; and as for deduction, he has a brain that is unrivalled — virtually unrivalled — in the northern hemisphere. You may be relieved, however, to learn that he is a trifle lazy, and quite decidedly somnolent — and that his executant ability on the violin is immeasurably inferior to my own.”

(Was there, I occasionally wondered, just the hint of competitive envy between those two unprecedented intellects?)

I had just called at 221B Baker Street on a fog-laden November afternoon in 188–, after taking part in some research at St. Thomas’s Hospital into suppurative tonsilitis (I had earlier acquainted Holmes with the particulars). Mycroft was staying with Holmes for a few days, and as I entered that well-known sitting room I caught the tail-end of the brothers’ conversation.

“Possibly, Sherlock — possibly. But it is the detail, is it not? Give me all the evidence and it is just possible that I could match your own analyses from my corner armchair. But to be required to rush hither and thither, to find and examine witnesses, to lie along the carpet with a lens held firmly to my failing sight... No! It is not my métier.”

During this time Holmes himself had been standing before the window, gazing down into the neutral-tinted London street. And looking over his shoulder I could see that on the pavement opposite there stood an attractive young woman draped in a heavy fur coat. She had clearly just arrived, and every few seconds was looking up to Holmes’s window in hesitant fashion, her fingers fidgeting with the buttons of her gloves. On a sudden she crossed the street, and Mrs. Hudson was soon ushering in our latest client.

After handing her coat to Holmes, the young lady sat nervously on the edge of the nearest armchair, and announced herself as Miss Charlotte van Allen. Mycroft nodded briefly at the newcomer, before reverting to a monograph on polyphonic plainchant; whilst Holmes himself made observation of the lady in that abstracted yet intense manner which was wholly peculiar to him.

“Do you not find,” began Holmes, “that with your short sight it is a little difficult to engage in so much type-writing?”

Surprise, apprehension, appreciation, showed by turns upon her face, succeeded in all by a winsome smile as she appeared to acknowledge Holmes’s quite extraordinary powers.

“Perhaps you will also tell me,” continued he, “why it is that you came from home in such a great hurry?”

For a few seconds, Miss van Allen sat shaking her head with incredulity; then, as Holmes sat staring towards the ceiling, she began her remarkable narrative.

“Yes, I did bang out of the house, because it made me very angry to see the way my father, Mr. Wyndham, took the whole business — refusing even to countenance the idea of going to the police, and quite certainly ruling out any recourse to yourself, Mr. Holmes! He just kept repeating — and I do see his point — that no real harm has been done... although he can have no idea of the misery I have had to endure.”

“Your father?” queried Holmes quietly. “Perhaps you refer to your step-father, since the names are different?”

“Yes,” she confessed, “my step-father. I don’t know why I keep referring to him as ‘father’ — especially since he is but five years older than myself.”

“Your mother — she is still living?”

“Oh, yes! Though I will not pretend I was over-pleased when she remarried so soon after my father’s death — and then to a man almost seventeen years younger than herself. Father — my real father, that is — had a plumbing business in the Tottenham Court Road, and Mother carried on the company after he died, until she married Mr. Wyndham. I think he considered such things a little beneath his new wife, especially with his being in a rather superior position as a traveller in French wines. Whatever the case, though, he made Mother sell out.”

“Did you yourself derive any income from the sale of your father’s business?”

“No. But I do have £100 annual income in my own right; as well as the extra I make from my typing. If I may say so, Mr. Holmes, you might be surprised how many of the local businesses — including Cook and Marchant — ask me to work for them a few hours each week. You see” (she looked at us with a shy, endearing diffidence) “I’m quite good at that in life, if nothing else.”

“You must then have some profitable government stock—?” began Holmes.

She smiled again. “New Zealand, at four and a half per cent.”

“Please forgive me, Miss van Allen, but could not a single lady get by very nicely these days on — let us say, fifty pounds per annum?”

“Oh, certainly! And I myself live comfortably on but ten shillings per week, which is only half of that amount. You see, I never touch a single penny of my inheritance. Since I live at home, I cannot bear the thought of being a burden to my parents, and we have reached an arrangement whereby Mr. Wyndham himself is empowered to draw my interest each quarter for as long as I remain in that household.”

Holmes nodded. “Why have you come to see me?” he asked bluntly.

A flush stole over Miss van Allen’s face and she plucked nervously at a small handkerchief drawn from her bag as she stated her errand with earnest simplicity. “I would give everything I have to know what has become of Mr. Horatio Darvill. There! Now you have it.”

“Please, could you perhaps begin at the beginning?” encouraged Holmes gently.

“Whilst my father was alive, sir, we always received tickets for the gas-fitters’ ball. And after he died, the tickets were sent to my mother. But neither Mother nor I ever thought of going, because it was made plain to us that Mr. Wyndham did not approve. He believed that the class of folk invited to such gatherings was inferior; and furthermore he asserted that neither of us — without considerable extra expenditure — had anything fit to wear. But believe me, Mr. Holmes, I myself had the purple plush that I had never so much as taken from the drawer!”

It was after a decent interval that Holmes observed quietly: “But you did go to the ball?”

“Yes. In the finish, we both went — Mother and I — when my step-father had been called away to France.”

“And it was there that you met Mr. Horatio Darvill?”

“Yes! And — do you know? — he called the very next morning. And several times after that, whilst my stepfather was in France, we walked out together.”

“Mr. Wyndham must have been annoyed once he learned what had occurred?”

Miss van Allen hung her pretty head. “Most annoyed, I’m afraid, for it became immediately clear that he did not approve of Mr. Darvill.”

“Why do you think that was so?”

“I am fairly sure he thought Mr. Darvill was interested only in my inheritance.”

“Did Mr. Darvill not attempt to keep seeing you — in spite of these difficulties?”

“Oh yes! I thought, though, it would be wiser for us to stop seeing each other for a while. But he did write — every single day. And always, in the mornings, I used to receive the letters myself so that no one else should know.”

“Were you engaged to this gentleman?”

“Yes! For there was no problem about his supporting me. He was a cashier in a firm in Leadenhall Street—”

“Ah! Which office was that?” I interposed, for that particular area is known to me well, and I hoped that I might perhaps be of some assistance in the current investigation. Yet the look on Holmes’s face was one of some annoyance, and I sank further into my chair as the interview progressed.

“I never did know exactly which firm it was,” admitted Miss van Allen.

“But where did he live?” persisted Holmes.

“He told me that he usually slept in a flat on the firm’s premises.”

“You must yourself have written to this man, to whom you had agreed to become engaged?”

She nodded. “To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, where I left my letters poste restante. Horatio — Mr. Darvill — said that if I wrote to him at his work address, he’d never get to see my envelopes first, and the young clerks there would be sure to tease him about things.”

It was at this point that I was suddenly conscious of certain stertorous noises from Mycroft’s corner — a wholly reprehensible lapse into poor manners, as it appeared to me.

“What else can you tell me about Mr. Darvill?” asked Holmes quickly.

“He was very shy. He always preferred to walk out with me in the evening than in the daylight. ‘Retiring,’ perhaps is the best word to describe him — even his voice. He’d had the quinsy as a young man, and was still having treatment for it. But the disability had left him with a weak larynx, and a sort of whispering fashion of speaking. His eyesight, too, was rather feeble — just as mine is — and he always wore tinted spectacles to protect his eyes against the glare of any bright light.”

Holmes nodded his understanding; and I began to sense a note of suppressed excitement in his voice.

“What next?”

“He called at the house the very evening on which Mr. Wyndham next departed for France, and he proposed that we should marry before my step-father returned. He was convinced that this would be our only chance; and he was so dreadfully in earnest that he made me swear, with my hand upon both Testaments, that whatever happened I would always be true and faithful to him.”

“Your mother was aware of what was taking place?”

“Oh, yes. And she approved so much. In a strange way, she was even fonder of my fiancé than I was myself, and she agreed that our only chance was to arrange a secret marriage.”

“The wedding was to be in church?”

“Last Friday, at St. Saviour’s, near King’s Cross; and we were to go on to a wedding-breakfast afterwards at the St. Paneras Hotel. Horatio called a hansom for us, and put Mother and me into it before stepping himself into a four-wheeler which happened to be in the street. Mother and I got to St. Saviour’s first — it was only a few minutes’ distance away. But when the four-wheeler drove up and we waited for him to step out — he never did, Mr. Holmes! And when the cabman got down from the box and looked inside the carriage — it was empty.”

“You have neither seen nor heard of Mr. Darvill since?”

“Nothing,” she whispered.

“You had planned a honeymoon, I suppose?”

“We had planned,” said Miss van Allen, biting her lip and scarce managing her reply, ‘a fortnight’s stay at the Royal Gleneagles in Inverness, and we were to have caught the lunchtime express from King’s Cross.”

“It seems to me,” said Holmes, with some feeling, “that you have been most shamefully treated, dear lady.”

But Miss van Allen would hear nothing against her loved one, and protested spiritedly: “Oh, no, sir! He was far too good and kind to treat me so.”

“Your own opinion, then,” said Holmes, “is that some unforeseen accident or catastrophe has occurred?”

She nodded her agreement. “And I think he must have had some premonition that very morning of possible danger, because he begged me then, once again, to remain true to him — whatever happened.”

“You have no idea what that danger may have been?”

“None.”

“How did your mother take this sudden disappearance?”

“She was naturally awfully worried at first. But then she became more and more angry; and she made me promise never to speak to her of the matter again.”

“And your step-father?”

“He seemed — it was strange, really — rather more sympathetic than Mother. At least he was willing to discuss it.”

“And what was his opinion?”

“He agreed that some accident must have happened. As he said, Mr. Darvill could have no possible interest in bringing me to the very doors of St. Saviour’s — and then in deserting me there. If he had borrowed money — or if some of my money had already been settled on him — then there might have been some reason behind such a cruel action. But he was absolutely independent about money, and he would never even look at a sixpence of mine if we went on a visit. Oh, Mr. Holmes! It is driving me half-mad to think of—” But the rest of the sentence was lost as the young lady sobbed quietly into her handkerchief.

When she had recovered her composure, Holmes rose from his chair, promising that he would consider the baffling facts she had put before him. “But if I could offer you one piece of advice,” he added, as he held the lady’s coat for her, “it is that you allow Mr. Horatio Darvill to vanish as completely from your memory as he vanished from his wedding-carriage.”

“Then you think that I shall not see him again?”

“I fear not. But please leave things in my hands. Now! I wish you to send me a most accurate physical description of Mr. Darvill, as well as any of his letters which you feel you can spare.”

“We can at least expedite things a little in those two respects,” replied she in business-like fashion, “for I advertised for him in last Monday’s Chronicle.” And promptly reaching into her handbag, she produced a newspaper cutting which she gave to Holmes, together with some other sheets. “And here, too, are four of his letters which I happen to have with me. Will they be sufficient?”

Holmes looked quickly at the letters, and nodded. “You say you never had Mr. Darvill’s address?”

“Never.”

“Your step-father’s place of business, please?”

“He travels for Cook and Marchant, the great Burgundy importers, of Fenchurch Street.”

“Thank you.”

After she had left Holmes sat brooding for several minutes, his fingertips still pressed together. “An interesting case,” he observed finally. “Did you not find it so, Watson?”

“You appeared to read a good deal which was quite invisible to me,” I confessed.

“Not invisible, Watson. Rather, let us say — unnoticed. And that in spite’ of my repeated attempts to impress upon you the importance of sleeves, of thumb-nails, of boot-laces, and the rest. Now, tell me, what did you immediately gather from the young woman’s appearance? Describe it to me.”

Conscious of Mycroft’s presence, I sought to recall my closest impressions of our recent visitor.

“Well, she had, beneath her fur, a dress of rich brown, somewhat darker than the coffee colour, with a little black plush at the neck and at the sleeves — you mentioned sleeves, Holmes? Her gloves were dove-grey in colour, and were worn through at the right forefinger. Her black boots, I was not able, from where I sat, to observe in any detail, yet I would suggest that she takes either the size four-and-a-half or five. She wore small pendant earrings, almost certainly of imitation gold, and the small handkerchief into which the poor lady sobbed so charmingly had a neat darn in the monogrammed corner. In general, she had the air of a reasonably well-to-do young woman who has not quite escaped from the slightly vulgar inheritance of a father who was — let us be honest about it, Holmes! — a plumber.”

A snort from the chair beside which Holmes had so casually thrown Miss van Allen’s fur coat served to remind us that the recumbent Mycroft had now reawakened, and that perhaps my own description had, in some respect, occasioned his disapproval. But he made no spoken comment, and soon resumed his former posture.

“ ’Pon my word, Watson,” said Holmes, “you are coming along splendidly — is he not, Mycroft? It is true, of course, that your description misses almost everything of real importance. But the method! You have hit upon the method, Watson. Let us take, for example, the plush you mention on the sleeves. Now, plush is a most wonderfully helpful material for showing traces; and the double line above the wrist, where the type-writist presses against the table, was beautifully defined. As for the short-sightedness, that was mere child’s play. The dent-marks of a pince-nez at either side of the lady’s nostrils — you did not observe it? Elementary, my dear Watson! And then the boots. You really must practise the art of being positioned where all the evidence is clearly visible. If you wish to observe nothing at all, like brother Mycroft, then you will seek out the furthest comer of a room where even the vaguest examination of the client will be obscured by the furniture, by a fur coat, by whatever. But reverting to the lady’s boots, I observed that although they were very like each other in colour and style, they were in fact odd boots; the one on the right foot having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the one on the left being of a comparatively plain design. Furthermore, the right one was fastened only at the three lower buttons out of the five; the left one only at the first, third, and fifth. Now the deduction we may reasonably draw from such evidence is that the young lady left home in an unconscionable hurry. You agree?”

“Amazing, Holmes!”

“As for the glove worn at the forefinger—”

“You would be better advised,” suddenly interposed the deeper voice of Mycroft, “to concentrate upon the missing person.”

May it have been a flash of annoyance that showed itself in Holmes’s eyes? If so, it was gone immediately. “You are quite right, Mycroft! Come now, Watson, read to us the paragraph from The Chronicle.”

I held the printed slip to the light and began: “Missing on the 14th November 188-. A gentleman named Mr. Horatio Darvill: about 5 feet 8 inches in height; fairly firmly built; sallow complexion; black hair, just a little bald in the centre; bushy black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted spectacles; slight infirmity of speech. When last seen, was dressed in—”

“But I think,” interrupted Holmes, “he may by now have changed his wedding vestments, Watson?”

“Oh, certainly, Holmes.”

There being nothing, it seemed, of further value in the newspaper description, Holmes turned his attention to the letters, passing them to me after studying them himself with minute concentration.

“Well?” he asked.

Apart from the fact that the letters had been typed, I could find in them nothing of interest, and I laid them down on the coffee-table in front of the somnolent Mycroft.

“Well?” persisted Holmes.

“I assume you refer to the fact that the letters are type-written.”

“Already you are neglecting your newly acquired knowledge of the method, Watson. Quite apart from the one you mention, there are three further points of immediate interest and importance. First, the letters are very short; second, apart from the vague ‘Leadenhall Street’ superscription, there is no precise address stated at any point; third, it is not only the body of the letter which has been typed, but the signature, too. Observe here, Watson — and here! — that neat little ‘Horatio Darvill’ typed at the bottom of each of our four exhibits. And it will not have escaped you, I think, how conclusive that last point might be?”

“Conclusive, Holmes? In what way?”

“My dear fellow, is it possible for you not to see how strongly it bears upon our present investigations?”

“Homo circumbendibus — that’s what you are, Sherlock!” (It was Mycroft once more.) “Do you not appreciate that your client would prefer some positive action to any further proofs of your cerebral superiority?”

It is pleasing to report here that this attempt of Mycroft to provoke the most distinguished criminologist of the century proved largely ineffectual, and Holmes permitted himself a fraternal smile as his brother slowly bestirred his frame.

“You are right, Mycroft,” he rejoined lightly. “And I shall immediately compose two letters: one to Messrs Cook and Marchant; the other to Mr. Wyndham, asking that gentleman to meet us here at six o’clock tomorrow evening.”

Already I was aware of the easy and confident demeanour with which Holmes was tackling the singular mystery which confronted us all. But for the moment my attention was diverted by a small but most curious incident.

“It is just as well, Sherlock,” said Mycroft (who appeared now to be almost fully awakened), “that you do not propose to write three letters.”

Seldom (let me admit it) have I seen my friend so perplexed: “A third letter?”

“Indeed. But such a letter could have no certain destination, since it apparently slipped your memory to ask the young lady her present address, and the letters she entrusted to you appear, as I survey them, to be lacking their outer envelopes.”

Momentarily Holmes looked less than amused by this lighthearted intervention. “You are more observant today than I thought, Mycroft, for the evidence of eye and ear had led me to entertain the suspicion that you were sleeping soundly during my recent conversation with Miss van Allen. But as regards her address, you are right.” And even as he spoke, I noted the twinkle of mischievous intelligence in his eyes. “Yet it would not be too difficult perhaps to deduce the young lady’s address, Mycroft? On such a foul day as this it is dangerous and ill-advised for a lady to travel the streets if she has a perfectly acceptable and comfortable alternative such as the Underground; and since it was precisely 3:14 P.M. when Miss van Allen appeared beneath my window, I would hazard the guess that she had caught the Metropolitan-line train which passes through Baker Street at 3:12 P.M. on its journey to Hammersmith. We may consider two further clues, also. The lady’s boots, ill-assorted as they were, bore little evidence of the mud and mire of our London streets; and we may infer from this that her own home is perhaps as adjacent to an Underground station as is our own. More significant, however, is the fact, as we all observed, that Miss van Allen wore a dress of linen — a fabric which, though it is long-lasting and pleasing to wear, is one which has the disadvantage of creasing most easily. Now the skirt of the dress had been most recently ironed, and the slight creases in it must have resulted from her journey — to see me. And — I put this forward as conjecture, Mycroft — probably no more than three or four stops on the Underground had been involved. If we remember, too, the ‘few minutes’ her wedding-carriage took from her home to St. Saviour’s, I think, perhaps... perhaps...” Holmes drew a street-map towards him, and surveyed his chosen area with his magnification-glass.

“I shall plump,” he said directly, “for Cowcross Street myself — that shabbily genteel little thoroughfare which links Farringdon Road with St. John Street.”

“Very impressive!” said Mycroft, anticipating my own admiration. “And would you place her on the north or the south side of that thoroughfare, Sherlock?”

But before Holmes could reply to this small pleasantry, Mrs. Hudson entered with a slip of paper which she handed to Holmes. “The young lady says she forgot to give you her address, sir, and she’s written it down for you.”

Holmes glanced quickly at the address and a glint of pride gleamed in his eyes. “The answer to your question, Mycroft, is the south side — for it is an even-numbered house, and if I remember correctly the numbering of houses in that part of London invariably begins at the east end of the street with the odd numbers on the right-hand side walking westwards.”

“And the number is perhaps in the middle or late thirties?” suggested Mycroft. “Thirty-six, perhaps? Or more likely thirty-eight?”

Holmes himself handed over the paper to us and we read:

I was daily accustomed to exhibitions of the most extraordinary deductive logic employed by Sherlock Holmes, but I had begun at this point to suspect, in his brother Mycroft, the existence of some quite paranormal mental processes. It was only half an hour later, when Holmes himself had strolled out for tobacco, that Mycroft, observing my continued astonishment, spoke quietly in my ear.

“If you keep your lips sealed, Dr. Watson, I will tell you a small secret — albeit a very simple one. The good lady’s coat was thrown rather carelessly, as you noticed, over the back of a chair; and on the inside of the lining was sewn a tape with her name and address clearly printed on it. Alas, however, my eyes are now not so keen as they were in my youth, and sixes and eights, as you know, are readily susceptible of confusion.”

I have never been accused, I trust, of undue levity, but I could not help laughing heartily at this coup on Mycroft’s part, and I assured him that his brother should never hear the truth of it from me.

“Sherlock?” said Mycroft, raising his mighty eyebrows. “He saw through my little joke immediately.”

It was not until past six o’clock the following evening that I returned to Baker Street after (it is not an irrelevant matter) a day of deep interest at St. Thomas’s Hospital.

“Well, have you solved the mystery yet?” I asked, as I entered the sitting room.

Holmes I found curled up in his armchair, smoking his oily clay pipe, and discussing medieval madrigals with Mycroft.

“Yes, Watson, I believe—”

But hardly were the words from his mouth when we heard a heavy footfall in the passage and a sharp rap on the door,

“This will be the girl’s step-father,” said Holmes. “He has written to say he would be here at a quarter after six. Come in!”

The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, about thirty years of age, clean-shaven, sallow-skinned, with a pair of most penetrating eyes. He placed his shiny top-hat on the sideboard, and with an insinuating bow sidled down into the nearest chair.

“I am assuming,” said Holmes, “that you are Mr. James Wyndham and” (holding up a type-written sheet) “that this is the letter you wrote to me?”

“I am the person, sir, and the letter is mine. It was against my expressed wish, as you may know, that Miss van Allen contacted you in this matter. But she is an excitable young lady, and my wife and I will be happy to forgive her for such an impulsive action. Yet I must ask you to have nothing more to do with what is, unfortunately, a not uncommon misfortune. It is clear what took place, and I think it highly unlikely, sir, that even you will find so much as a single trace of Mr. Darvill.”

“On the contrary,” replied Holmes quietly, “I have reason to believe that I have already discovered the whereabouts of that gentleman.”

Mr. Wyndham gave a violent start, and dropped his gloves. “I am delighted to hear it,” he said in a strained voice.

“It is a most curious fact,” continued Holmes, “that a type-writer has just as much individuality as does handwriting. Even when completely new, no two machines are exactly alike; and as they get older, some characters wear on this side and some on that. Now in this letter of yours, Mr. Wyndham, you will note that in every instance there is some slight slurring in the eye of the ‘e’; and a most easily detectable defect in the tail of the ‘t’.”

“All our office correspondence,” interrupted our visitor, “is typed on the same machine, and I can fully understand why it has become a little worn.”

“But I have four other letters here,” resumed Holmes, in a slow and menacing tone, “which purport to come from Mr. Horatio Darvill. And in each of these, also, the ‘e’s are slurred, and the ‘t’s un-tailed.”

Mr. Wyndham was out of his chair instantly and had snatched up his hat. “I can waste no more of my valuable time with such trivialities, Mr. Holmes. If you can catch the man who so shamefully treated Miss van Allen, then catch him! I wish you well — and ask you to let me know the outcome. But I have no interest whatsoever in your fantastical notions.”

Already, however, Holmes had stepped across the room and turned the key in the door. “Certainly I will tell you how I caught Mr. Darvill, if you will but resume your chair.”

“What?” shouted Wyndham, his face white, his small eyes darting about him like those of a rat in a trap. Yet finally he sat down and glared aggressively around, as Holmes continued his analysis.

“It was as selfish and as heartless a trick as ever I encountered. The man married a woman much older than himself, largely for her money. In addition, he enjoyed the interest on the not inconsiderable sum of the stepdaughter’s money, for as long as that daughter lived with them. The loss of such extra monies would have made a significant difference to the lifestyle adopted by the newly married pair. Now the daughter herself was an amiable, warm-hearted girl, and was possessed of considerable physical attractions; and with an added advantage of a personal income, it became clear that under normal circumstances she would not remain single for very long. So he — the man of whom I speak — decided to deny her the company and friendship of her contemporaries by keeping her at home. But she — and who shall blame her? — grew restive under such an unnatural regimen, and firmly announced her intention to attend a local ball. So what did her step-father do? With the connivance of his wife, he conceived a cowardly plan. He disguised himself cleverly: he covered those sharp eyes with dully tinted spectacles; he masked that clean-shaven face with bushy side-whiskers; he sank that clear voice of his into the strained whisper of one suffering from the quinsy. And then, feeling himself doubly secure because of the young lady’s short sight, he appeared himself at the ball, in the guise of one Horatio Darvill, and there he wooed the fair Miss van Allen for his own — thereafter taking the further precaution of always arranging his assignations by candlelight.”

(I heard a deep groan which at the time I assumed to have come from our visitor, but which, upon reflection, I am inclined to think originated from Mycroft’s corner.)

“Miss van Allen had fallen for her new beau; and no suspicion of deception ever entered her pretty head. She was flattered by the attention she was receiving, and the effect was heightened by the admiration of her mother for the man. An ‘engagement’ was agreed, and the deception perpetuated. But the pretended journeys abroad were becoming more difficult to sustain, and things had to be brought to a head quickly, although in such a dramatic way as to leave a permanent impression upon the young girl’s mind. Hence the vows of fidelity sworn on the Testaments; hence the dark hints repeated on the very morning of the proposed marriage that something sinister might be afoot. James Wyndham, you see, wished his step-daughter to be so morally bound to her fictitious suitor that for a decade, at least, she would sit and wilt in Cowcross Street, and continue paying her regular interest directly into the account of her guardian: the same blackguard of a guardian who had brought her to the doors of St. Saviour’s and then, himself, conveniently disappeared by the age-old ruse of stepping in at one side of a four-wheeler — and out at the other.”

Rising to his feet, Wyndham fought hard to control his outrage. “I wish you to know that it is you, sir, who is violating the law of this land — and not me! As long as you keep that door locked, and thereby hold me in this room against my will, you lay yourself open—”

“The law,” interrupted Holmes, suddenly unlocking and throwing open the door, “may not for the moment be empowered to touch you. Yet never, surely, was there a man who deserved punishment more. In fact... since my hunting-crop is close at hand—” Holmes took two swift strides across the room; but it was too late. We heard a wild clatter of steps down the stairs as Wyndham departed, and then had the satisfaction of watching him flee pell-mell down Baker Street.

“That cold-blooded scoundrel will end on the gallows, mark my words!” growled Holmes.

“Even now, though, I cannot follow all the steps in your reasoning, Holmes,” I remarked.

“It is this way,” replied Holmes. “The only person who profited financially from the vanishing-trick — was the step-father. Then, the fact that the two men, Wyndham and Darvill, were never actually seen together was most suggestive. As were the tinted spectacles, the husky voice, the bushy whiskers — all of these latter, Watson, hinting strongly at disguise. Again, the type-written signature betokened one thing only — that the man’s handwriting was so familiar to Miss van Allen that she might easily recognize even a small sample of it. Isolated facts? Yes! But all of them leading to the same inevitable conclusion — as even my slumbering sibling might agree?”

But there was no sound from the Mycroft corner.

“You were able to verify your conclusion?” I asked.

Holmes nodded briskly. “We know the firm for which Wyndham worked, and we had a full description of Darvill. I therefore eliminated from that description everything which could be the result of deliberate disguise—”

“Which means that you have not verified your conclusion!” Mycroft’s sudden interjection caused us both to turn sharply towards him.

“There will always,” rejoined Holmes, “be a need and a place for informed conjecture—”

“Inspired conjecture, Holmes,” I interposed.

“Phooey!” snorted Mycroft. “You are talking of nothing but wild guesswork, Sherlock. And it is my opinion that in this case your guesswork is grotesquely askew.”

I can only report that never have I seen Holmes so taken aback; and he sat in silence as Mycroft raised his bulk from the chair and now stood beside the fireplace.

“Your deductive logic needs no plaudits from me, Sherlock, and like Dr. Watson I admire your desperate hypothesis. But unless there is some firm evidence which you have thus far concealed from us...?”

Holmes did not break his silence.

“Well,” stated Mycroft, “I will indulge in a little guesswork of my own, and tell you that the gentleman who just stormed out of this room is as innocent as Watson here!”

“He certainly did not act like an innocent man,” I protested, looking in vain to Holmes for some support, as Mycroft continued.

“The reasons you adduce for your suspicions are perfectly sound in most respects, and yet — I must speak with honesty, Sherlock! — I found myself sorely disappointed with your reading — or rather complete misreading — of the case. You are, I believe, wholly correct in your central thesis that there is no such person as Horatio Darvill.” (How the blood was tingling in my veins as Mycroft spoke these words!) “But when the unfortunate Mr. Wyndham, who has just rushed one way up Baker Street, rushes back down it the other with a writ for defamation of character — as I fear he will! — then you will be compelled to think, to analyse, and to act, with a little more care and circumspection.”

Holmes leaned forward, the sensitive nostrils of that aquiline nose a little distended. But still he made no comment.

“For example, Sherlock, two specific pieces of information vouchsafed to us by the attractive Miss van Allen herself have been strongly discounted, if not wholly ignored, in your analysis.” (I noticed Holmes’s eyebrows rising quizzically.) “First, the fact that Mr. Wyndham was older than Miss van Allen only by some five years. Second, the fact that Miss van Allen is so competent and speedy a performer on the type-writer that she works, on a free-lance basis, for several firms in the vicinity of her home, including Messrs Cook and Marchant. Furthermore, you make the astonishing claim that Miss van Allen was totally deceived by the disguise of Mr. Darvill. Indeed, you would have her not only blind, but semi-senile into the bargain! Now it is perfectly true that the lady’s eyesight is far from perfect — glaucopia Athenica, would you not diagnose, Dr. Watson? — but it is quite ludicrous to believe that she would fail to recognize the person with whom she was living. And it is wholly dishonest of you to assert that the assignations were always held by candlelight, since on at least two occasions, the morning after the first meeting — the morning, Sherlock! — and the morning of the planned wedding ceremony, Miss van Allen had ample opportunity of studying the physical features of Darvill in the broadest of daylight.”

“You seem to me to be taking an unconscionably long time in putting forward your own hypothesis,” snapped Holmes, somewhat testily.

“You are right,” admitted the other. “Let me beat about the bush no longer! You have never felt emotion akin to love for any woman, Sherlock — not even for the Adler woman — and you are therefore deprived of the advantages of those who like myself are able to understand both the workings of the male and also the female mind. Five years her superior in age — her step-father; only five years. Now one of the sadnesses of womankind is their tendency to age more quickly and less gracefully than men; and one of the truths about mankind in general is that if you put one of each sex, of roughly similar age, in reasonable proximity... And if one of them is the fair Miss van Allen — then you are inviting a packet of trouble. Yet such is what took place in the Wyndham ménage. Mrs. Wyndham was seventeen years older than her young husband; and perhaps as time went by some signs and tokens of this disproportionate difference in their ages began to manifest themselves. At the same time, it may be assumed that Wyndham himself could not help being attracted — however much at first he sought to resist the temptation — by the very winsome and vivacious young girl who was his step-daughter. It would almost certainly have been Wyndham himself who introduced Miss van Allen to the part-time duties she undertook for Cook and Marchant — where the two of them were frequently thrown together, away from the restraints of wife and home, and with a result which it is not at all difficult to guess. Certain it is, in my own view, that Wyndham sought to transfer his affections from the mother to the daughter; and in due course it was the daughter who decided that whatever her own affections might be in the matter she must in all honour leave her mother and step-father. Hence the great anxiety to get out to dances and parties and the like — activities which Wyndham objected to for the obvious reason that he wished to have Miss van Allen as close by himself for as long as he possibly could. Now you, Sherlock, assume that this objection arose as a result of the interest accruing from the New Zealand securities — and you are guessing, are you not? Is it not just possible that Wyndham has money of his own — find out, brother! — and that what he craves for is not some petty addition to his wealth, but the love of a young woman with whom he has fallen rather hopelessly in love? You see, she took him in, just as she took you in, Sherlock — for you swallowed everything that calculating little soul reported.”

“Really, this is outrageous!” I objected — but Holmes held up his hand, and bid me hear his brother out.

“What is clear, is that at some point when Wyndham was in France — and why did you not verify those dates spent abroad? I am sure Cook and Marchant would have provided them just as quickly as it furnished the wretched man’s description. But as I was saying, with Wyndham in France, mother and daughter found themselves in a little tête-à-tête one evening, during the course of which a whole basketful of dirty linen was laid bare, with the daughter bitterly disillusioned about the behaviour of her step-father, and the mother hurt and angry about her husband’s infidelity. So, together, the pair of them devised a plan. Now, we both agree on one thing at least, Sherlock! There appears to be no evidence whatsoever for the independent existence of Horatio Darvill except for what we have heard from Miss van Allen’s lips. Rightly, you drew our attention to the fact that the two men were never seen together. But, alas, having appreciated the importance of that clue, you completely misconceived its significance. You decided that there is no Darvill — because he is Wyndham. I have to tell you that there is no Darvill — because he is the pure fabrication of the minds of Mrs. Wyndham and her daughter.”

Holmes was staring with some consternation at a pattern in the carpet, as Mycroft rounded off his extravagant and completely baseless conjectures.

“Letters were written — and incidentally I myself would have been far more cautious about those ‘e’s and ‘t’s: twin faults, as it happens, of my very own machine! But, as I say, letters were written — but by Miss van Allen herself; a wedding was arranged; a story concocted of a nonexistent carriage into which there climbed a non-existent groom — and that was the end of the charade. Now, it was you, Sherlock, who rightly asked the key question: cui bono? And you concluded that the real beneficiary was Wyndham. But exactly the contrary is the case! It was the mother and daughter who intended to be the beneficiaries, for they hoped to rid themselves of the rather wearisome Mr. Wyndham — but not before he had been compelled, by moral and social pressures, to make some handsome money-settlement upon the pair of them — especially perhaps upon the young girl who, as Dr. Watson here points out, could well have done with some decent earrings and a new handkerchief. And the social pressure I mention, Sherlock, was designed — carefully and cleverly designed — to come from you. A cock-and-bull story is told to you by some wide-eyed young thing, a story so bestrewn with clues at almost every point that even Lestrade — given a week or two! — would probably have come up with a diagnosis identical with your own. And why do you think she came to you, and not to Lestrade, say? Because ‘Mr. Sherlock Holmes is the greatest investigator the world had ever known’ — and his judgements are second only to the Almighty’s in their infallibility. For if you, Sherlock, believed Wyndham to be guilty — then Wyndham was guilty in the eyes of the whole world — the whole world except for one, that is.”

“Except for two,” I added quietly.

Mycroft Holmes turned his full attention towards me for the first time, as though I had virtually been excluded from his previous audience. But I allowed him no opportunity of seeking the meaning of my words, as I addressed him forthwith.

“I asked Holmes a question when he presented his own analysis, sir. I will ask you the same: have you in any way verified your hypothesis? And if so, how?”

“The answer, Dr. Watson, to the first part of your question is, in large measure, ‘yes.’ Mr. Wyndham, in fact, has quite enough money to be in no way embarrassed by the withdrawal of Miss van Allen’s comparatively minor contribution. As for the second part...” Mycroft hesitated awhile. “I am not sure what my brother has told you of the various offices I hold under the British Crown—”

It was Holmes who intervened — and impatiently so. “Yes, yes, Mycroft! Let us all concede immediately that the, shall we say, ‘unofficial’ sources to which you are privy have completely invalidated my own reconstruction of the case. So be it! Yet I would wish, if you allow, to make one or two observations upon your own rather fanciful interpretation of events? It is, of course, with full justice that you accuse me of having no first-hand knowledge of what are called ‘the matters of the heart.’ Furthermore, you rightly draw attention to the difficulties Mr. Wyndham would have experienced in deceiving his step-daughter. Yet how you under-rate the power of disguise! And how, incidentally, you over-rate the intelligence of Lestrade! Even Dr. Watson, I would suggest, has a brain considerably superior—”

For not a second longer could I restrain myself. “Gentlemen!” I cried. “You are both — both of you! — most tragically wrong.”

The two brothers stared at me as though I had taken leave of my senses.

“I think you should seek to explain yourself, Watson,” said Holmes sharply.

“A man,” I began, “was proposing to go to Scotland for a fortnight with his newly married wife, and he had drawn out one hundred pounds in cash — no less! — from the Oxford Street branch of the Royal National Bank on the eve of his wedding. The man, however, was abducted after entering a four-wheeler on the very morning of his wedding-day, was brutally assaulted, and then robbed of all his money and personal effects — thereafter being dumped, virtually for dead, in a deserted alley in Stepney. Quite by chance he was discovered later that same evening, and taken to the Whitechapel Hospital. But it was only after several days that the man slowly began to recover his senses, and some patches of his memory — and also, gentlemen, his voice. For, you see, it was partly because the man was suffering so badly from what we medical men term ‘suppurative tonsilitis’ — the quinsy, as it is commonly known — that he was transferred to St. Thomas’s where, as you know, Holmes, I am at present engaged in some research on that very subject, and where my own professional opinion was sought only this morning. Whilst reading through the man’s hospital notes, I could see that the only clue to his identity was a tag on an item of his underclothing carrying the initials ‘H. D.’ You can imagine my excitement—”

“Humphry Davey, perhaps,” muttered Mycroft flippantly.

“Oh no!” I replied, with a smile. “I persisted patiently with the poor man, and finally he was able to communicate to me the name of his bank. After that, if I may say so, Holmes, it was almost child’s play to verify my hypothesis. I visited the bank, where I learned about the withdrawal of money for the honeymoon, and the manager himself accompanied me back to St. Thomas’s where he was able to view the patient and to provide quite unequivocal proof as to his identity. I have informed you, therefore, that not only does Mr. Horatio Darvill exist, gentlemen, he is at this precise moment lying in a private ward on the second floor of St. Thomas’s Hospital!”

For some little while a silence fell upon the room. Then I saw Holmes, who these last few minutes had been standing by the window, give a little start. “Oh, no!” he groaned. And looking over his shoulder I saw, dimly beneath the fog-beshrouded lamplight, an animated Mr. Wyndham talking to a legal-looking gentleman who stood beside him.

Snatching up his cape, Holmes made hurriedly for the door. “Please tell Mr. Wyndham, if you will, Watson, that I have already written a letter to him containing a complete recantation of my earlier charges, and offering him my profound apologies. For the present, I am leaving — by the back door.”

He was gone. And when, a minute later, Mrs. Hudson announced that two angry-looking gentlemen had called asking to see Mr. Holmes, I noticed Mycroft seemingly asleep once more in his corner armchair, a monograph on polyphonic plainchant open on his knee, and a smile of vague amusement on his large, intelligent face.

“Show the gentlemen in, please, Mrs. Hudson!” I said — in such peremptory fashion that for a moment or two that good lady stared at me, almost as if she had mistaken my voice for that of Sherlock Holmes himself.