After our inconvenient encounter of the previous day, Holmes had set a few of his young Irregulars to track the movements of Lady Bracknell. Algernon Moncrieff’s house was in Lowndes Square, a stone’s throw from his brother’s, making it convenient for our cab to call in at Baker Street on our way from King’s Cross. Outside our house a solemn-faced girl waited to assure us that Lady Bracknell was attending a performance of Gideon Beech’s new play, Old Nick’s Neophyte, at the Aegis Theatre. Much relieved, we proceeded through the twilit evening to Lowndes Square.
We found Algernon’s house to be perfectly in keeping with the other dwellings we had seen in Belgravia, though larger and more imposing than Ernest’s, and more lavishly furnished than the Saviles’, both of which it otherwise much resembled architecturally. We were met by a grave butler who informed us that Mr Moncrieff was presently alone and would be glad to receive us.
‘Your name is Lane, is it not?’ Holmes asked the man as he led us upstairs. ‘You were Mr Moncrieff’s manservant formerly, I believe?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Lane. I knew that this was relatively unusual, as it is normally the wife’s privilege to choose the servants for the matrimonial home. There was no reason why Cecily should not have decided to retain and promote Lane, of course, but I wondered whether it might instead indicate some unusual sway of servant over master – based, perhaps, on a long familiarity with the latter’s secrets. Now that the idea of blackmail had been put into my head, I was seeing it everywhere.
Holmes wisely chose not to probe into this area, instead asking, ‘How have you found the transition to a married household, Lane? It must have taken some adjustment.’
Lane paused to consider, though the steady pace of his progression along the corridor did not waver. He said, ‘My chief concern at the time was for the quality of the wine cellar, sir. Mr Moncrieff’s cellar at Half-Moon Street was excellent. Fortunately, he has been assiduous in maintaining his bachelor standards in that respect.’
‘I am sure you have advised him knowledgeably, Lane.’
‘I do my best to give satisfaction, sir.’ The noise of enthusiastic but rather poor piano-playing had been growing as we progressed, and Lane now opened the door to a drawing room where Algernon was entertaining himself fortissimo on a Steinway grand.
He stopped as Lane announced us. ‘Did you hear what I was playing?’ he asked us, a little out of breath.
I had not recognised the piece. ‘We were hardly in a position not to,’ I equivocated.
Algernon said, ‘Technical perfection in musicianship is overrated, don’t you think? The true virtuoso is one who can infuse the music with feeling and move his audience to tears without the tedious business of playing well.’
Holmes, who was a highly able violinist both technically and temperamentally, looked pained. ‘As an approach I suppose it has the merit of novelty,’ he said.
Algernon beamed. ‘Not in the least. It is what every third-rate musician aspires to. The novelty lies in the fact that I have found a way to justify it. You may leave us, Lane.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Mr Moncrieff,’ said Holmes heavily as Lane closed the door behind him, ‘we know who Bunbury was. Not the dead body, but the original Bunbury.’
‘Ah.’ Algernon’s smile became a little less beatific. ‘Then you know, I suppose, that Bunbury had no origin to speak of. He sprang into life fully formed, forever on the cusp of leaving it.’
‘We understand that he was an alibi,’ I said. ‘A pretence to cover up your youthful indiscretions.’
‘My dear Dr Watson, to cover up an indiscretion is a contradiction in terms. Discretion lies precisely in the act of concealment.’
‘So you admit your dissembling?’ Holmes asked.
‘Certainly I do. And remarkably successful dissembling it was, too. Bunbury himself may have been an obvious hoax, but what did Bunbury obscure? I don’t suppose you’ve been able to find that out,’ he concluded, a little defiantly.
‘I have no doubt that I could, given time,’ said Holmes. ‘But it is not my priority at present.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. I would hate to think of my past possessing priority for anybody but myself.’
Holmes sighed, already tired of Algernon’s word games. He said, ‘Do you have any idea why the dead man should have given his name as Bunbury, Mr Moncrieff?’
‘None whatsoever. Certainly it is something that I never did. Although I must say, you seem in rather a hurry to dismiss the idea that his name really was Bunbury.’
‘Not as much of a hurry as you’ve been yourself,’ I pointed out, a little indignantly.
‘That was before Holmes pointed out to me the true extent of the Bunbury genealogy,’ Algernon said imperturbably. ‘He has quite opened my eyes. It would be delightful to be visited by a real Bunbury, after visiting an imaginary one so often.’
Doggedly, Holmes said, ‘It seems far more likely, however, that the dead man used the name Bunbury to show you that he knew of its significance, and to suggest to you that he knew more about the covert habits of your past. Has anyone been dropping hints to that effect recently, Mr Moncrieff?’
Abruptly, Algernon sighed and sat down heavily on the piano stool. He rang a bell, and Lane reappeared.
‘Lane, some food for our guests, please. Cook’s madeira cake, I think, and some scones and jam. And some of those little almond biscuits, if we have them.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Lane. ‘How many plates shall I bring?’
Algernon raised his eyebrows hospitably at us. Holmes frowned at him and I shook my head mutely. ‘Just the one plate then, Lane,’ he concluded cheerfully.
‘He understands you well,’ Holmes observed.
‘Oh, I am not so very complicated a fellow,’ Algernon said lightly.
‘Are you now prepared to tell us who has been applying pressure on you, and to what end?’ Holmes asked.
Algernon took a cigarette from a silver case. He offered one to each of us, lit them, drew in the smoke from his own and exhaled heavily.
He said, ‘Since you ask, a thoroughly unpleasant chap approached me in the street a few weeks ago. He was nobody I had seen before. His face was one I should certainly have remembered if I had. He mentioned certain events in my past which he felt I might not wish to be made known to my wife, my family or the world at large.’
‘Good heavens,’ I exclaimed.
Algernon continued, ‘He was not mistaken on that score, but the course of action he suggested to me was quite out of the question. He said that, to protect themselves from the truth, my relatives should be persuaded to invest large sums in a particular business venture.’
Holmes asked, ‘What was the venture?’
Algernon looked pained. ‘Something connected with transport, I think. As my wife, my aunt and any number of London’s honest tradesmen will tell you, I have no head for anything relating to business or money. That is why marrying Cecily was such a stroke of fortune. She brought to our marriage not only a substantial accumulation of capital, but also a clear head for niceties that escape me, like the precise distinction between debit and credit. Financial matters are always better left to women, don’t you think? They have the determination and grasp of detail that men lack.’
Holmes was looking argumentative, so I said diplomatically, ‘My own late wife was very prudent in matters of housekeeping.’ Lane re-entered, bringing with him a footman who carried plates of the cakes and biscuits Algernon had requested.
Taking a large slice of madeira cake and nibbling at it, Algernon continued, ‘For that very reason, the idea of my persuading Cecily, let alone Aunt Augusta, who naturally holds a similar position in my uncle’s household, to make any investment on my own recommendation, is perfectly ludicrous.’
‘Did you make any effort to do so?’ Holmes asked.
‘I may have mentioned to Cecily that I had had an investment tip from a friend, but she replied that she had taken, through our agent, the advice o
f the best stockbrokers in the City, that our investment portfolio was tied up in funds certain to yield satisfactory medium- and long-term returns, and that I wasn’t to worry my handsome head about it. All of which was perfectly correct and sensible of her, and to be commended. Having met my aunt, you will appreciate that I could hardly expect any greater success with her.’
I said, ‘But weren’t you worried that this blackmailer fellow would tell them what he knew?’
Algernon shrugged. ‘I only worry about things I can control, like my meals and my buttonholes. Expending worry on such a matter would have been a tedious waste of my energy. The question was quite out of my hands.’
Holmes asked, ‘Did the disagreeable gentleman give a name?’
‘He told me that his name was Broadwater, but I see no compelling reason to believe him. He was a hulking fellow, with the look of a brawler or a prize fighter. He had a broken nose and a cauliflower ear, and a scar above his right eye.’
I exchanged a look with Holmes. The body on the flagstones had had none of these conspicuous attributes, but the man whom we had seen lurking in the bushes of Belgrave Square on the night of Bunbury’s death matched the description neatly.
Holmes cleared his throat and said, ‘When you heard that the supposed Mr Bunbury had called at your brother’s house, did you connect him with this Mr Broadwater?’
‘Well, not in any inextricable way, but naturally the possibility occurred to me. My first inkling that he was there was when Cecily and Lord Illingworth found his body in the garden, and the first I heard of his name was when you mentioned it yourself. It gave me quite a start. My first thought was that he was a practical joker, but falling to one’s death in another man’s garden would suggest a commitment to satire deplorably lacking in most modern comedians. After that, I did somewhat assume that he had been sent by Broadwater or his employers to further persuade me.’
‘So you were honestly unaware of his presence in the library? You did not hear Merriman mention his name to your brother?’
‘I really was listening to the music, I’m afraid,’ said Algernon with a smile. ‘The quartet must have been unfamiliar with my theory of musicianship, because they played with considerable skill.’
‘And you did not enter the library that evening?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘I am sorry to press you, Mr Moncrieff, but a common response to blackmail is to at least consider an attempt to make away with the extortionist. Have I your word that this is not what happened in this case?’
Algernon opened his mouth to reply, but from the doorway Cecily said, ‘Oh, Algy, my dearest, has somebody been blackmailing you as well?’
Holmes and I looked on in surprise as the young Mrs Moncrieff bustled into the room and crossed to stand in solidarity with her husband. Abandoning his insouciance of earlier, Algernon held her hand and told her, with apparent sincerity, ‘Yes, my own. It has been perfectly devastating. You cannot envisage how much I’ve been longing to tell you.’
‘My poor sweet darling,’ Cecily replied. ‘I can only imagine how you’ve suffered. We shall face this together, as we face everything. I am quite determined of that.’
‘You said “as well”,’ Holmes pointed out, a little affronted. ‘Are you being blackmailed too, Mrs Moncrieff?’
Cecily gave her gay little laugh. She said, ‘Oh, I have had the most absurd letter, delivered by a messenger a fortnight ago. I am quite sure that it is nothing.’
I said, ‘Perhaps you should tell us even so, Mrs Moncrieff. Given what we have found out from your husband, it may be more important than you realise.’
‘Well, if you think so,’ she said. ‘The letter was extremely serious in tone, so you can imagine how frivolously I took it. I am entirely ignorant of my family history,’ she continued, ‘having been cautioned against excessive curiosity by my governess from a tender age. From the evidence of my maiden name I presume that the late Thomas Cardew was my paternal grandfather, but I’m aware that other arrangements are possible. Beyond that I know only that my parents are deceased, and that I was brought up by Grandfather and later by Uncle Ernest.’
I caught Holmes’s eye, and he twitched his head in an almost undetectable negative. If Cecily’s guardians had not seen fit to disclose to her the accepted story of her origins, then it was not for us to overrule their decision, especially when we had reason to believe it might be false. Besides, the fact that Cecily herself raised the subject suggested that it had a bearing on the matter in hand.
She said, ‘So, when I saw that the letter addressed me as “Dear daughter”, I felt it betrayed a most discourteous lack of research.’
‘Good Lord!’ I declared.
‘The letter-writer claimed to be familiar with the details of my origin, having been intimately involved with them in the capacity of a parent, and believed that they might prove of interest to society in general, and to Algy and Aunt Augusta in particular. Lady Bracknell is notoriously protective of her family’s marital connections.’
‘That’s nonsense!’ insisted Algernon. ‘Aunt Augusta is terribly fond of you.’
‘As am I of her, darling, but she has an unfortunate habit of letting practicalities stand in the way of sentiment.’
‘No power on earth could separate me from you, my dearest,’ Algernon assured her. ‘Not even Aunt Augusta.’
‘Algy, you have never been able to stand up to her. I don’t believe you’ve ever even tried.’
‘But she has never tried to separate you from me.’
‘Well, that is very sweet of you, dearest boy, but I regard the question as untested for the moment.’
Holmes cleared his throat and said, ‘Forgive my indelicacy, Mrs Moncrieff, but what were the facts that the letter-writer believed that you would not want known? You may, of course, rely on my discretion and that of Dr Watson.’
‘There was a most disappointing lack of detail in that respect, Mr Holmes. I think they assumed I would be familiar with the matters they alluded to, which shows a very poor judgement of character.’
Holmes said, ‘You say “they”. Did the writer not describe themselves as your mother or father?’
‘No,’ said Cecily. ‘In that limited respect they preserved their anonymity perfectly.’
‘You could not identify the handwriting as feminine or masculine?’
‘Oh, the letter was typewritten,’ Cecily informed us.
‘I see. Well, we may perhaps deduce something of the sender’s circumstances from that, if not their sex. I will be able to tell more if you have kept the letter.’
‘I’m afraid that I burned it, Mr Holmes,’ Cecily admitted. ‘It seemed the thing to do, although I replied first.’
Holmes raised an eyebrow. ‘Was a return address supplied?’
‘No, the messenger promised to return an hour later.’
‘And in what terms did you reply?’
‘One of the few specific points in the letter was that money would be instrumental in settling the situation. Algy and I have rather a lot of money, Mr Holmes, as you may know. Still, as an orphan my sentimental attachments are important to me, and I was reluctant to part with it in such a cause. Nevertheless, I replied saying that I thought the writer’s suggestion might be accommodated. I have heard nothing since.’
Holmes frowned. ‘That is curious. One would expect a blackmailer to treat such a positive response with more dispatch.’
From the doorway, Ernest Moncrieff’s voice exclaimed, ‘Good heavens, Cecily! You don’t mean to say that you are being blackmailed as well?’
‘As well?’ repeated Holmes, somewhat incredulously this time.
CHAPTER NINE
THE PREVALENCE OF BLACKMAIL
I looked around for Gwendolen Moncrieff, to see whether she too would admit that she was being forced to buy another’s silence, but it seemed that Ernest had arrived alone.
Algernon said, ‘You are always most welcome in our house, Ernest, but I do expect tha
t when a fellow arrives in a room he should be announced. A simple announcement hardly seems too much to ask. It prepares one fully for such pleasure as may lie ahead, of whatever degree, and gives one time to adopt an appropriate posture. What on earth have you done with Lane?’
‘I sent him down to the cellar for some of that excellent champagne of yours, of course,’ said Ernest. ‘I expect he’ll extract a bottle or two for himself and the other servants while he’s down there. It’s a price I’m willing to pay.’
‘Did he not mention that I had company, old boy? Really, Lane is becoming very lax in passing on necessary information.’
‘Mr Moncrieff,’ said Holmes with exaggerated patience. ‘That is, Mr Ernest Moncrieff. Should I take your earlier comment as implying that you, like your brother and sister-in-law, have recently been subject to attempted blackmail?’
Ernest fingered his moustache dubiously. ‘Well, if you want to call it that. It is a rather alarming word to use.’
‘It is a rather alarming crime. Has somebody demanded money in return for their silence regarding particular facts that might be embarrassing to you?’
‘Oh, if you put it that way, then I suppose so. I have been getting letters.’
‘Typewritten ones,’ Holmes asked, ‘sent by an anonymous messenger?’
‘No, not at all. They are handwritten, in a masculine fist of distressing crudity, and arrive through the post, giving the address of a post office box. So far they have merely been threatening, with the suggestion that the threats may miraculously dissolve in the presence of money. Why are these fellows always so obsessed with money?’
‘Always?’ I asked.
‘Oh, there was a time when I used to get letters from cranks almost every day. I thought they had got tired of it at last. I’m not sure whether you recall the case, Mr Holmes, but I was for a time notorious under the tiresome name of the “Handbag Heir”, having been found as an infant in such a receptacle in the—’
He was clearly easing himself into a familiar flow, but Holmes interrupted sternly. ‘What specific threats are made in the letters?’
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