Pike said, ‘Oh, Bunbury has long since passed far beyond our mortal ken, Doctor. He was a close friend of Algy’s, a fearful invalid who needed constant attention and companionship, and Algy was frequently obliged to run down to the country and stay with him at a moment’s notice. These relapses of Bunbury’s often coincided fortuitously with dreary social occasions or other burdensome commitments which Algy would have been obliged to honour, had he remained in London rather than being at his sick friend’s beck and call. It was, I have no doubt, a tremendous trial to him.’
‘So this Bunbury was a fiction?’ I asked.
Pike smiled lazily. ‘He was far more than that. He was an alibi for whatever whim Algy might choose to follow at any particular time. Alas, I haven’t the details of precisely what wild oats the lad was sowing while he was away Bunburying, but I am sure that his aunt would not have approved of them. The day he became engaged to Cecily Cardew, he announced that Bunbury’s health had finally given out altogether. I’ve often wondered whether he would regret that impulsive decision.’
Holmes asked, ‘How widely is this known, Langdale?’
‘Oh, it was one of the worst-kept secrets in London,’ Pike assured us. ‘It was so popular it was hardly worth gossiping about. My guess would be that even Lady Bracknell suspected it, but preferred to allow her nephew the leeway afforded by the fabrication. Perhaps Algy chose to kill Bunbury off, not because he was a reformed character, but because he apprehended that Cecily would never believe in him.’
‘There was no foundation for the lie?’ Holmes asked. ‘No real Mr Bunbury languishing unvisited?’
‘Not that I ever heard,’ Pike replied. ‘I must say, this is most intriguing. What has been going on, Sherlock?’ Pike was one of the very few people who routinely called Holmes by his first name, something that, in sixteen years of friendship, I had done only to distinguish him from his brother Mycroft. I still felt somewhat affronted by the overfamiliarity.
Briefly, Holmes set out the facts of the case before Pike, admonishing him that the evidence against Mabel Goring and the matter of her arrest must remain confidential for the moment. This seemed to me a fantastically optimistic stipulation given to whom we were talking, but I am bound to report that Holmes’s trust did not prove misplaced.
After Pike had listened to the story, he said, ‘Well, I can tell you little to the discredit of the rest of the family. Ernest, like Algy, enjoyed something of a wild youth, but I have heard nothing exceptional about him, beyond the quite splendid story that is already public knowledge. Cecily Cardew seems to have led a disappointingly blameless life, both before and since her marriage. And if Lady Bracknell or her daughter have any guilty secrets, those in the know are too terrified to confide them even to me.’
‘What of Lord Bracknell?’ I asked.
‘Exceedingly rich, but in poor health,’ said Pike. ‘After more than thirty years married to Lady Bracknell, I should say he has shown remarkable stamina in surviving at all. He was ennobled from the commonalty, having made his money in some kind of commerce, although you would never think it from speaking to his wife or daughter. The heir is his son, Gwendolen’s brother Gerald, who I understand used to propose marriage rather often, but has had the habit curtailed since one of the young ladies unexpectedly took him up on the offer.’
Holmes gave a selective list of the other guests at the ball, and asked Pike whether he had anything to report of them.
‘There is little of interest concerning Major and Mrs Nepcote,’ said Pike. ‘She wears her nature openly and he tolerates it, and so they put themselves beyond the scope of scandal. The rest are dull at best and foolish at worst, with three exceptions.’
Holmes leaned back in his chair, tapping a long forefinger against his chin. ‘Pray tell.’
Pike glanced dubiously at me. I seldom accompanied Holmes on his visits to Bradley’s Club, and I had noticed a certain reserve in the gossipmonger’s behaviour towards me compared with his easier manner with Holmes.
‘Come now, Langdale,’ Holmes smiled. ‘You know you may rely on Watson’s discretion.’
‘May I? There are certain things I should prefer not to see published in The Strand,’ Pike said peevishly, ‘or Beeton’s or Lippincott’s, come to that. I have my professional standards, Sherlock, just as you do.’
I began to splutter in protest, but Holmes calmed me. ‘Now, now, Watson, Langdale is right to be cautious, though I promise him that he has every reason to trust you. He keeps a lot of the information that he holds from the public. Why, if that were not the case, would I have any need to consult him at all, rather than merely reading his columns?’
‘I suppose he must be wary of legal repercussions,’ I grudgingly acknowledged. ‘But so must I, and I resent—’
‘Not just that, John,’ said Pike insolently. ‘I may call you John?’ He continued, without the slightest pause for my assent, ‘Of course, I am often given material that would be actionable if published, or that is insufficiently interesting for my readers, but I also have an obligation to protect my sources. Much of my information comes from servants, whom the upper classes will often leave out of their considerations when attempting to keep secrets. When a particular morsel of gossip could only come from one source, I must be circumspect lest I leave that source without a roof over their head or a livelihood.
‘I also exercise some judgement in the matter of culpability. In certain types of scandal I make a clear distinction between perpetrators and victims, one which is rarely drawn so clearly by society at large. In such cases it would hardly be right to expose the latter to the forces of public opprobrium. Unfortunately, there are instances where naming the perpetrator would make the victim’s name obvious, and those are consequently of no use to me at all. In such cases, in fact, I often pass what I know on to Sherlock in case there is anything he can achieve with them.’
I was surprised, I must admit, to discover that London’s telltale-in-chief had scruples, but it made more sense of his friendship with Holmes.
I said, ‘Whatever you may tell me, I promise you I will not publish it in any way that might allow the individuals to be identified during their lifetimes. I do have some experience of this sort of thing, you know.’
Pike smiled. ‘Good enough,’ he said. ‘Very well, then. I may be able to provide some further details on three of your… principals? Suspects? Persons of interest in the case?’
Holmes said, ‘Any of those terms will do. Pray proceed. Watson and I are all ears.’
Pike said, ‘To take the simplest and least pleasant to tell first… Lord Illingworth is an awful man, a notorious seducer and rake. He was ruining impressionable young women when he was plain Mr George Harford, long before he succeeded to his noble title. I have knowledge of at least one illegitimate child, a young man who fled to America four years ago with his mother and fiancée rather than reconcile with his natural father.’
‘Who was the mother?’ I asked.
‘Oh, a woman of no importance,’ Pike replied blithely, leaving me in no doubt that he knew her name. ‘This was shortly before Illingworth was dispatched to his embassy, where I imagine he continued in much the same vein. I have no doubt that there are other children, nor should I be at all surprised to discover worse things in his past.’
Well, Cecily Moncrieff had said that Lord Illingworth was very wicked. I wondered, though, whether she could possibly be aware of how wicked. I supposed that such a character might at least account for the coldness that Mrs Teville had shown towards the earl.
‘Who else?’ asked Holmes.
‘Well, there is the matter of Lord Goring.’
‘Ah!’ Holmes was intrigued. ‘This promises to be of interest.’
‘In recent years he has done little to warrant any ill reputation, beyond being idle and a constant cause of annoyance to his father. As far as little Mabel is concerned, he has shown every sign of being an ideal husband to her. The scandal in his case comes in his past. Twelve ye
ars ago, in 1885, he was engaged to a schoolfellow of Gertrude Chiltern’s, an engagement that lasted only a few days before he broke it off.’
‘Surely not Gwendolen Fairfax?’ I asked, astonished.
Pike shook his head. ‘No, another girl. Her name was Laura Hungerford. She was seventeen, Goring twenty-four. The whole affair displeased his family greatly, although the accounts I’ve heard suggest that the fault was on his side rather than hers. After their estrangement she vanished altogether from public view.’
‘A youthful folly on Goring’s part,’ suggested Holmes. ‘Of no lasting consequence, surely. And the third guest?’
‘Patience, Sherlock, there is more. Two years ago, Miss Hungerford resurfaced under a married name. She returned to London as a wealthy woman, calling herself Mrs Cheveley and claiming to have spent time in Vienna. Whether there was ever a Mr Cheveley is a moot point. Her path crossed Lord Goring’s at that time, and that of Robert Chiltern. There was some unpleasantness that I never did reach the bottom of, though it culminated in Goring’s engagement to Mabel Chiltern. It may have concerned Mrs Cheveley’s business interests.’
‘Is this Mrs Cheveley in business?’ Holmes asked, surprised.
‘Before she disappeared once more from my sphere of knowledge, she was an active investor of her fortune, and a shareholder in a number of dubious ventures. Financial scandal isn’t really my area, I’m afraid, but I gather that her name had a habit of arising in peripheral connections when fraud, malpractice, embezzlement and the like were discovered, always in ways which left her blameless legally, but morally implicated.’
‘Interesting,’ Holmes said again. ‘Although as yet we have no evidence of any fiscal dimension to this case. Is that everything?’
‘As far as the Gorings and Chilterns are concerned, yes. Mrs Teville is a more interesting case. I know of her, of course. She has been a fixture at balls and parties among the Moncrieffs’ circle this season. But I have been quite unable to identify her.’
‘Identify her?’ I repeated, confused. ‘Do you suppose she’s using a false name?’
‘Oh John, these much-married women are a dreadful trial in my line of work. They go through so many names, some of them doubtless as fictitious as Mr Bunbury’s. It is far easier for a woman to reinvent herself than for a man, as Laura Cheveley shows us.’
‘And is that all you can tell us of her? That you can tell us nothing?’
‘Very nearly,’ Pike confirmed. ‘However, there is a rumour that Mrs Teville has one particular interest in London society. A younger woman whom she has met in private at a number of houses in London, and to whom she is more closely related than is generally known.’
‘And who is that?’ I could tell Holmes scented an avenue of inquiry.
‘Unfortunately I have no idea, and neither have my informants. The only one who could perhaps have told me more, a maid in a respectable household with a laudably open ear for her betters’ conversation, was too scrupulous to do so. She has heard them together, but like me, she feels that the identity of an innocent is not for general ears. The scent of scandal attaching to Mrs Teville, whom she dislikes, was quite another matter.’
‘Interesting,’ Holmes reflected, ‘most interesting. How old would you say Mrs Teville was, Watson?’
‘Her mid-forties,’ I said promptly. ‘Although she covers it up well.’
‘Such was my impression also. And this mysterious woman – her daughter, surely, Langdale?’
Pike nodded. ‘My informant seems to believe so.’
‘In that case it seems unlikely that she can be older than her mid-twenties, and she might well be younger. This may have some bearing on our case.’
I said, ‘Gwendolen Moncrieff is twenty-nine, I think.’ I had looked the family up in Debrett’s that morning. ‘Lady Chiltern must be around the same age. They must be too old, surely.’
Holmes agreed. ‘Mabel Goring is more the correct age, but she, like them, has a firmly attested family history. Cecily Moncrieff, however, is a possible candidate.’
‘By Jove, yes,’ I said. ‘She’s Thomas Cardew’s granddaughter, isn’t she? But Ernest was her guardian, so she must have no living parents. Or none known, at any rate.’
‘Well, we must not get too excited. There may be no connection at all, except that the family knows Mrs Teville now.’
‘You know I make no guarantee as to the relevance of any of this, or even of its veracity,’ Pike observed lethargically. ‘I merely offer it for what it may be worth. The use you make of it is your affair.’
‘You have given us sufficient for our current needs, Langdale, and I am grateful.’
‘You will forward the usual fee?’ Pike asked, a hard glint in his eye. ‘We may be friends, Sherlock, but it is important to me that our business affairs be on a professional footing.’
Holmes responded with a far more friendly smile than this impolite request deserved. ‘Never doubt it, old fellow.’
‘One other thing,’ Pike suggested as we stood up to go. ‘That story about the infant in the handbag has always seemed… incomplete to me. How likely it is that a nursemaid might mistakenly place a baby in a piece of luggage I can’t say, but no reason was ever given for why she should deposit the bag at Victoria Station. Nor, having realised her mistake, why she would get rid of the perambulator and run rather than attempting to make amends. A child’s life could have been at stake, after all, and she would have lost her position in any case.’
Holmes nodded thoughtfully. ‘The latter point might be explained if the late Mrs Moncrieff, the nursemaid’s employer, were as imposing as her sister, Lady Bracknell. But you’re right, the story is a queer one. I have never seen any reason to examine the matter in depth, as its outcome seemed to be so satisfactory to all concerned, but you may be right that there are questions to be answered. Whether they are relevant to the business in hand is another matter, of course.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
EXCURSION TO WOOLTON MANOR
Holmes and I spent the evening at home, I catching up with my correspondence, he alternating between wordlessly playing the violin and smoking in the meditative silence which was typical of his cogitations when in the early stages of a case. In its companionable familiarity our enclosure was a thoroughly pleasant one, but I could not help comparing it with that of Lady Goring, separated from her husband and child and consigned to the privations of a police cell, or worse, a prison, and shivering a little in sympathy with her.
In the morning Holmes outlined his plan for the day. He purposed to prevail upon our comrades at Scotland Yard to provide him with the police accounts of the infant Ernest Moncrieff’s disappearance in 1867, while I took a trip to Woolton in Hertfordshire, the site of the Cardew family home, to make discreet enquiries of the locals regarding the history of the family, and particularly of Cecily’s parentage.
I had been in Scotland Yard’s record room before, and Holmes’s share of the work sounded unenviably dull to me. For my part I was perfectly content to accept a respite from the capital, and enjoy the train journey through the leafy countryside to the north of London. The intrigues and the verbal fencing of the past days fell away behind me and I basked in the spring sunshine through my carriage window. The air was clear, the sky blue, and as we passed from buildings through fields and into woodland, birdsong could be heard over the bearlike huffing and grunting of the engine.
The journey from King’s Cross took little more than an hour, and soon I was alighting at Woolton, a charming village that enjoyed its own station purely because it happened to lie directly upon the branch line. A row of rustic cottages with flowers flourishing in baskets faced the main street, a stream babbled under a humpbacked bridge towards a mill-race, and hens scratched at the pavement in front of the village post office. I stepped into an old half-timbered public house, the Spotted Calf, and left half an hour later, the better for a bottle of the local ale and with directions to the Manor House and the parish church. For the co
nvenience of the local nobility, the latter, as is often the way in such places, lay in the grounds of the former. The landlord assured me that the rector, one Reverend Canon Doctor Chasuble, was a most learned gentleman and something of a local historian, as well as a personal friend of the bishop, so I had hopes that he might be able to supply the information I needed.
I strolled along the church path past the boys’ and girls’ schools to the church, a compact affair nestled in a churchyard surrounded on three sides by woodland, with its own small bell-tower and what the verger assured me was a much-admired octagonal marble font. This gentleman also informed me that the rector would be making his rounds of the parish, but suggested a time later that day when I might find him at home with Mrs Chasuble.
I filled the time with a ramble through the manor grounds, both verger and publican having assured me that Mr Moncrieff had no great objections to visitors on his land. The estate was larger than I had expected, including a modest farm and several hundred acres of woods replete with pheasant and deer. It seemed neat, orderly and well kept, which I assumed reflected better on Ernest’s, or perhaps more likely Gwendolen’s, choice of estate manager than on any labours of his own.
The Manor House was also large, with a grand Regency frontage concealing an older building behind. It was shut up in the family’s absence, presumably housing only the minimum of servants required to keep it in order, but I saw several groundsmen, gamekeepers and gardeners, including a chatty fellow who I happened upon digging a new flower bed in a lavish rose garden, and who introduced himself as Moulton. He was perfectly delighted to give me the standard potted history of Ernest Moncrieff’s life in exchange for half a crown, but became understandably wary when I ventured onto the subject of his master’s former ward.
Sherlock Holmes--The Spider's Web Page 9
