‘Well, we must set our minds to tracking down Mrs Teville, or Erlynne, at once,’ Holmes decided. ‘Langdale, I must thank you for your help. You acted the part to perfection, my dear fellow. I could almost have credited that you hated me.’
Langdale Pike laughed loudly. It was the least affected sound I had heard from him. ‘And I could well believe your contempt for me, Sherlock. I have often said that you missed your vocation on the boards.’
‘I must say, Holmes,’ I said, ‘I had not expected that Mrs Cheveley would turn out to be Mrs Winterbourne.’ I hardly liked now to admit to my suspicions of the ridiculous Mrs Nepcote, who was presumably, given her behaviour, simply another of Mrs Cheveley’s victims. Whatever secrets her past held, she must be ashamed of them indeed if she feared Major Roderick Nepcote discovering them.
‘I had guessed it, my dear fellow. Did you not hear Gwendolen Moncrieff allude to their shared schooldays when we found them together?’
I remembered now that Gwendolen was also a schoolfellow of Lady Chiltern’s, as, I recalled, was Mrs Nepcote. With Mrs Cheveley they must have made an odd quartet.
Holmes added, ‘And it would certainly have given her the best vantage to observe and orchestrate the campaign against Durrington.’
I said, ‘But is it not a most unlikely coincidence that she was living next door to the Moncrieffs?’
‘That is true.’ Holmes frowned. ‘It was a great help to her in planning the murder, but she cannot have been expecting that when she took the house.’
I said, ‘Nor was Ernest of any interest to her, except through his connections. She would have done better to take the house next to the younger brother, since she was blackmailing Algernon, Cecily and Lane. Nobody was blackmailing Ernest but Durrington.’
A look of great alarm came onto Holmes’s face. Evidently less used to his friend’s moods than I, Pike asked, ‘Good God, Sherlock, whatever is the matter?’
‘I have been an imbecile, Watson!’ Holmes cried in horror. ‘We have the architect of this affair in handcuffs, but the murderess is still at large, and there is someone whose safety I have been entirely neglecting. Come, quickly!’
Soon the pair of us had bade a hasty farewell to Langdale Pike, and were once again in a cab to Belgrave Square. During our short journey Holmes enjoined upon our stolid cabbie an urgent haste obviously quite offensive to his sensibilities, which must have been as languid in their way as Pike’s own.
Insisting that the man wait for us, Holmes led me at a run up to the front door of Number 149 Belgrave Square, past the scandalised face of Merriman the butler, up the stairs, and into the drawing room. There, we found Gwendolen Moncrieff sitting alone.
‘Mr Holmes!’ she declared, rising. ‘Dr Watson! To what do I owe this precipitate and somewhat intrusive honour?’
‘Mrs Moncrieff,’ Holmes said without preamble, ‘I believe you are aware that your next-door neighbour, Mrs Winterbourne, was once known as Laura Hungerford.’
‘Well, of course,’ Gwendolen replied with perfect composure. ‘She and I were at school together.’
‘Were you also aware that she went by the name of Cheveley?’
‘When someone has had as many husbands as Mrs Winterbourne,’ Gwendolen replied, ‘it is not polite to remember all their names. Like childhood pets, each lasts for so short a time, and the mention of them may summon distressing memories. What is the import of these most stimulating inquiries, Mr Holmes? One does prefer to understand the reasons for one’s interrogations.’
‘One more question, Mrs Moncrieff, if you will indulge me. Has Mrs Winterbourne recently intimated that she might reveal any fact about your past that you would prefer were not widely known?’
Gwendolen opened her mouth to express her disdain for this question with some perfectly crafted retort, then closed it again. She said, ‘Oh dear,’ in a small voice, sat down and burst into tears.
Baffled, Holmes looked wildly about for a way to circumvent this unexpected obstacle. Sighing, I sat down next to Gwendolen, pulled a clean handkerchief from my waistcoat pocket and passed it to her.
‘Come now, Mrs Moncrieff,’ I said, patting her hand. ‘We only want to help. You can trust us not to let anything you say go any further. But Holmes is worried that somebody may be about to commit violence, and on subjects like that he is, I am afraid, seldom wrong. Won’t you please help us prevent it?’
Holmes was gazing at me with impatience, but also some respect. Remarkably, he had the good sense to keep quiet for the moment.
‘Come now,’ I said again to Gwendolen. ‘Why don’t you tell us all about it?’
Sniffing occasionally into my handkerchief, Mrs Moncrieff revealed the final piece in our puzzle.
‘I have,’ she said, ‘always had a fascination with the name Ernest. It was one of the first and most profound things that attracted me to my husband. When I was quite young I happened upon some personal effects which I now realise must have belonged to my late uncle, General Moncrieff, and they bore his Christian name prominently. It thrilled me to realise that there were men whose rectitude was written in that way in the very syllables that designated them, but it was more than simply the meaning of the name. The all-but-synonymous name of Frank, for instance, I find clumsy and lumpen. Ernest spoke to me with a music all of its own. I knew then that I was destined to marry a man named Ernest.’
During this her voice had become impassioned and lyrical. Now she paused and swallowed. ‘Unfortunately, Ernest Moncrieff, or Ernest Worthing as he was at the time, is not the first man of that name whom I have known.’
I saw the gleam of understanding in Holmes’s eyes, but shook my head as he opened his mouth to speak.
Instead, I hazarded a guess of my own. ‘Did this happen at school?’ I asked, and I saw Holmes’s head dip sharply in approval.
Gwendolen swallowed again. She said, ‘He was the groundskeeper’s boy, Ernie Preston. The instant I realised what that vulgar abbreviation stood for, I became fascinated by him. I sought his company. We spoke together. I was very young, and my notions were romantic ones. I said things I should not, and so did he. When Matron found out, he was dismissed and I have never seen him since.
‘It took many years before I would consider marriage to another man, much to Mama’s dismay as she had an alphabetical dossier of suitable candidates compiled in collaboration with her friend, the Duchess of Bolton, but when I found another named Ernest I realised that he, and only he, would be my husband. It was extremely fortunate,’ she added practically, ‘that Ernest turned out in fact to be his real name.’
Unable to contain himself any longer, Holmes asked, ‘How did your matron discover the liaison, Mrs Moncrieff?’
‘Another girl told her,’ Gwendolen said. ‘Laura Hungerford happened to see us together one day. She was as malicious then as she is now, but she had not yet learned the value of keeping secrets. It was only with the most heartfelt pleading, and a substantial cash bribe, that I was able to persuade Matron to keep my name out of the matter when she reported Ernie to the school authorities. I was forced to sell a rather valuable watch that Papa had given me, but I had no choice. If it had reached Mama’s attention…’ She shuddered.
I asked, ‘And was it this secret that Mrs Winterbourne threatened you with?’ I may have sounded slightly sceptical. Gwendolen was a grown woman now, and married, and surely could no longer be held responsible for a foolish schoolgirl flirtation.
She looked defiant. ‘Dr Watson, you know Mama. If you were her daughter, would you wish her to discover that you had been keeping from her for years a secret that might affect the reputation of the family?’
‘No indeed,’ I said, but I guessed from the flush on her cheeks that the affair had perhaps extended further than the relatively innocent romance she had described. There had perhaps been unfulfillable promises that could still embarrass the family, were they to become known.
Well, it was no business of mine, and Holmes was interrupting once a
gain, bursting with impatience. ‘What has she demanded from you now, in return for keeping your secret? Is it your husband’s money?’
‘My husband has comparatively little money, Mr Holmes,’ she said, with the natural distaste of her class in discussing such things.
‘Forgive me, but I had understood that he was somewhat wealthy,’ Holmes said with some asperity.
‘I said “comparatively”, Mr Holmes. Mrs Winterbourne appears indifferent to Ernest’s modest fortune. Her interest is in Papa’s money. Papa is extremely and exceptionally wealthy,’ she added disingenuously, ‘regardless of one’s basis for comparison.’
‘I see,’ said Holmes. His look of alarm was returning. ‘And how receptive has Lord Bracknell been to this suggestion?’
‘Oh, if it was a matter of Papa alone, I believe he would indulge me as he always has,’ Gwendolen replied. ‘But he naturally defers to Mama in all matters of business and finance, as he does in those of politics, religion, ethics, diet, dress, health, household management and social relations, and she utterly refuses to countenance the idea. I told Mrs Winterbourne regretfully that my mother was an insuperable obstacle, and that has been an end to the matter.’
‘Great Scott!’ Holmes cried. ‘Mrs Moncrieff, this is extremely important. Where is your mother now?’
‘She has gone to the theatre,’ said Gwendolen, frowning in concern. ‘She was to see The Deplorable Mrs Guildbourne with Mrs Teville.’
‘Mrs Teville, by Jove!’ By now I was almost as alarmed as Holmes. ‘Which theatre?’ I asked her.
But Holmes was looking at his watch. ‘The theatre is immaterial, Watson,’ he told me. ‘Lady Bracknell always leaves at the interval.’
‘In that case, I suppose they will be taking tea together at Brown’s,’ Gwendolen suggested, still absolutely mystified.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
TEA AT BROWN’S
We entered Brown’s Hotel at a run, Holmes flinging a handful of coins at our sluggish cabman with an exhortation to wait outside on Albemarle Street, in case we needed to follow the trail still further. We hurtled past an angry liveried doorman and an appalled commissionaire, and made for the tearooms where customers sat at linen-draped tables marked out in chess games of china and silver.
Lady Bracknell and Mrs Teville – or, as I now thought of her, Mrs Erlynne – were sitting at a table at the far end. In contrast with her finery at the ball, Mrs Erlynne’s mink stole now adorned a simple ivory dress that contrasted starkly with Lady Bracknell’s lavish crimson ensemble.
The murderess was pouring tea from a teapot into two cups, to one of which she added milk before handing it to Gwendolen’s mother.
‘Lady Bracknell!’ Holmes bellowed across the crowded tearoom. ‘Don’t drink the tea, I beg you!’
We hared across the room, scattering waiters and upsetting at least one tea tray. Lady Bracknell sat frozen with her cup halfway to her lips until we had come to a halt in front of her, then she set it down carefully.
‘Mr Holmes,’ she said, in tones that would have withered the whole of Kew Gardens, ‘you appear to have developed an inordinate objection to tea. Are you a faddist, sir? I have no truck with teetotalism, but I confess discovering the existence of its opposite alarms me even more.’ She once again lifted the cup towards her mouth.
‘The tea is unsafe, Lady Bracknell,’ Holmes told her urgently. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mrs Erlynne reach for her own cup, and I dashed it from her hand. She stared at me, paralysed by fury and alarm, as its tarry stain spread across the richly pattered scarlet and gold carpet.
Lady Bracknell paused again, the vessel an inch from her lips. ‘Unsafe, sir? At Brown’s? I admit that the tea at Claridge’s is to be preferred, when that establishment is not, as now, lamentably closed for refurbishment. But there are surely any number of more dubious purveyors of the beverage in the West End alone? If Brown’s tea is to be considered unsafe, then taking tea at the Savoy must be perilous in the extreme, and the blend used at the Langham invariably fatal.’
‘Lady Bracknell,’ Holmes pleaded as she once again made as if to take a sip, ‘the tea you are holding is fatal. Mrs Teville has poisoned it.’
I had not been altogether sure of this myself, until I had seen the desperate way Mrs Erlynne had clutched at her own cup. But Lady Bracknell was not a person to respond well to statements made with less than absolute certainty.
Her Ladyship went so far as to rise from her seat, though not to put down her teacup. She glared at Holmes and declared, ‘Should I find myself in need of a food taster, Mr Holmes, I shall advertise the position in the appropriate trade journals, and you will be most welcome to apply. As matters stand, I have no recollection of inviting you to interest yourself in my affairs in any capacity. You may believe, sir, that your questionable profession entitles you to imagine the most sensational plots on the part of others, but it does not grant you the licence to insinuate that a person of my standing in society has consorted with poisoners.’
Holmes threw up his hands in exasperation. He cried, ‘Lady Bracknell, if you drink that tea you will die an agonising death!’
Meanwhile, the headwaiter had arrived. ‘Shall I have these persons escorted from the building, Lady Bracknell?’ he asked obsequiously.
‘I think that would be for the best,’ she said with an air of finality. ‘I cannot imagine what conspiracies Mr Holmes will uncover when he learns that you serve coffee also.’
Next to me, the supposed Mrs Teville made a sudden attempt to escape from the table, but I was in time to seize her arm. ‘Mrs Erlynne,’ I said to her hastily, and saw her start at the use of her former name. ‘Mrs Cheveley is arrested. We have come directly from the scene, or very nearly. She can do you no more harm now. Your daughter is safe.’
I felt her sag in my arms, and struggled to catch her. I manhandled her back into a chair, while the waiters clutched ineffectually at my own arms.
Mrs Erlynne held up a hand. ‘Please wait,’ she said to everybody in the vicinity. ‘Especially you, Lady Bracknell,’ she added, as that lady made to fortify herself with an invigorating sip of tea. ‘Mr Holmes is telling the truth. I have attempted to murder you. I placed arsenic in the teapot.’
By now we were at the centre of everyone’s attention in the room, and this announcement caused no little sensation among the other customers. Lady Bracknell reacted with nothing more than a blink.
After a longish pause, she proclaimed, ‘It is the birthright of all English persons, from the highest to the lowest station, to drink tea if they wish. The same is true in India, I believe, and even in China, although doubtless there are prohibitions against it in the modern republics. Providence has extended to neither Mr Holmes nor any other person the authority to revoke that privilege.’ She placed her cup back onto its saucer with extreme care. ‘Nevertheless, given the exceptional circumstances, it is one that I shall forgo, for now.’
She sat again. With one deft motion, Holmes whisked away the cup and teapot and placed them on a tray, which he handed to the nearest waiter with the instruction, ‘Give these to the police when they arrive.’ The man took the tray as gingerly as if it were an angry cat.
‘If Brown’s is to play host to such revolutionary outrages as this,’ Lady Bracknell observed to the head waiter in tones of ringing disappointment, ‘then Claridge’s cannot reopen soon enough.’
‘Yes, Lady Bracknell,’ the man said. ‘May I bring you some more tea?’
‘I think not,’ Her Ladyship replied sharply. ‘I am not yet so jaded with life that I would hazard it in such a reckless gamble.’
‘Dr Watson,’ Mrs Erlynne asked me, ‘have you tricked me, or is that venomous woman truly in the hands of the police?’
‘She is,’ I said. ‘You may be absolutely sure of that.’
‘Then I will confess everything,’ the murderess said. ‘Everything I have done has been at her behest, and I will tell all if it will help to condemn her. For my own safety I care noth
ing. But… you spoke of my daughter. Do you know her name?’
I shook my head.
‘Do you, Mr Holmes?’
‘Madam, I do not,’ he told her gravely.
‘Then I must implore you on your honour never to find out,’ she said passionately. ‘I know that you could if you wished, your reputation assures me of it, but I must ask you never to do so. My crime can never touch her as long as her connection to me is unknown.’
Holmes inclined his head. ‘She is an innocent in this, and shall be protected. I give you my word.’
‘Thank you, Mr Holmes,’ said Mrs Erlynne. ‘And thank God.’ She drew from her pocket her decorated fan, and waved it over her flushed face. For the first time I saw that the curlicues with which it was adorned spelled out the name ‘Margaret’, and I wondered whether the fan was her own, and if not, whose it was.
One of the quicker-witted waiters had summoned a police constable, who arrived shortly thereafter and took Mrs Erlynne away, with strict instructions that she must be kept apart from the vengeful Mrs Cheveley.
Several of the nearby tables had been hurriedly vacated by the more nervous of Brown’s clientele, and Holmes sequestered one, gesturing for me to join him. ‘I believe I could feel the benefit of a pot of tea, Watson,’ he observed, waving a hand for a waiter, ‘while we consider the satisfactory conclusion of our present case and look forward to our next. I imagine that Gregson will be rather busy this evening, and he can surely wait until the morrow for our official statements.’
A babble of voices interrupted us, and we looked up to see the arrival of the four members of the Moncrieff family, who rushed up to Lady Bracknell’s table in great concern.
‘Aunt Augusta, are you safe?’ Ernest Moncrieff asked at once.
‘I am not in the habit of being otherwise, Ernest,’ Lady Bracknell replied disapprovingly, ‘although it seems that doubting the fact has become quite the fashion. I am quite disappointed in your lack of conviction.’
‘But Mr Holmes seemed quite sure that your life was threatened,’ Gwendolen cried, looking anxiously across at us.
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