by Lyndsay Faye
“Indeed, I will. You may rely upon my full energies being devoted to your cause. After breakfast.”
Had Holmes sprouted wings and taken flight, he could not have stunned me any more than he did with this implication that he thought an intriguing case of secondary importance to a meal being consumed, and I believe my eyebrows expressed this sentiment.
“Give me your address,” Holmes ordered, writing it upon his shirt-cuff with one of the pens he had just retrieved from the floor. “Very well. We shall see you in Middlesex in a few hours, Mr. Phillimore, and during that time, I should like for you to cudgel your brains over any relevant details you may have accidentally omitted. Good morning.”
With that, the quivering supplicant departed, and I regarded Sherlock Holmes with a silent yet determined gaze I calculated would bear more fruit than direct interrogation. It did so, and more quickly than I had dared to hope.
“It doesn’t quite wash, you see.” Holmes tore two pillows from his armchair and collapsed full length upon the bearskin, threading his slim fingers behind his head as he continued to smoke languidly. “Supposing we had accompanied him, I shouldn’t have had time to work out why and could have botched matters spectacularly, despite your habit of painting me with an unduly flattering brush. Anyhow, it will give you time to consume an egg or two. If you’d do me the favor of not speaking for the interim . . .”
“Gladly,” I responded, going to the table after casting a satisfied glance over my restored writing desk.
I was not destined to assist Sherlock Holmes by keeping my peace on this occasion, however. The thunderous steps preceding the equally stormy arrival of an unannounced visitor caused me—as a man whose alertness had not faltered since my friend’s near-strangulation at Colonel Sebastian Moran’s hands—to freeze upon a pin’s head, directing my frame at the opening door. The face which confronted us when it flew open was an unforgettable one. His eyes were slit with serpentine cunning, his form fat and yet wan with unhealthy pallor—altogether, an unpleasant walking threat of a man wearing loudly checked brown trousers with a florid scarlet necktie and a devious smirk that canted unevenly across his visage. He reminded me of a bloated species of maggot, and my posture reflected this association.
“All right, then, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he declared upon arrival, staring down with bald-faced contempt at my friend’s unlikely position on the carpet. “My name is Atlantus B. Conger, and I’ve a meaty bone to pick with you.”
“How unfortunate,” my friend drawled, tilting his head as he studied the intruder. “On both counts.”
For the second time that morning, I found myself edging between Sherlock Holmes and an object of distaste. “State your business, sir, without hesitation, as we are better accustomed to our visitors making prearranged appointments.”
Thrusting a poorly manicured finger at Holmes, Atlantus B. Conger announced, “You’ve been engaged to find James Phillimore. That sniveling worm of a brother consulted you. Well, I want to know what you’ve been told and I want to know if you’ll play straight with me when you do learn more, you savvy?”
“I do,” Holmes assured him, closing his eyes as if too overwhelmed by tedium to remain awake. He flitted a lazy hand toward the stairs. “Mr. Conger, I invite you to rekindle your acquaintance with the door.”
“Oh, is that how it is?” the brute snarled, clenching a thick fist which—though doughlike—had doubtless seen its share of violent activity, for it was scarred and scabrous. “I’ll have you know that James Phillimore has recently frequented my establishment, proved himself a bit heavy-handed at cards, and presently owes me three hundred and twenty-nine pounds.”
“What a tremendous pity.” Holmes took a delicate sip from his pipe. “Your establishment, you say? I take it to be the variety of establishment where guests are invited to part with all their earnings, since I frankly cannot imagine any of the honest private clubs or gambling halls being owned by a former bare-knuckle boxer wearing quite that shade of cravat. The pugilism might pass, granted, but as for the choice in neckwear . . .” He angled a brow. “Unthinkable.”
“My little den is as honest as it needs to be and I’ll thank you to watch that mouth of yours,” Conger snarled.
“Yes, yes, the proprietors of all the finest betting enclaves charge unannounced into unrelated gentlemen’s homes during the breakfast hour.” Holmes rolled his eyes, a movement which in his supine position directed them at the fireplace.
“Put on all the airs you like, you arrogant toff, that don’t change the fact of his owing me—”
“Three hundred and twenty-nine pounds, yes. You mentioned it.”
“You can bet your last tanner I did! Add to that figure some ten quid for all the poppy of mine he’s smoked and I’m out three hundred and thirty-nine pounds through no fault saving my own generous nature.”
A bright smile briefly illuminated Holmes’s sober features. “Dear me! Someone has taught it arithmetic.”
“By Christ, that’s enough of your lip. Are you actually this keen to have your head stove in, or just too thick to know when you’ve met your match? I’ve broken better men than you,” the card sharp’s oddly asymmetrical mouth spat.
“I don’t believe you have,” I demurred, planting my feet.
Holmes, pipe frozen between the empty teacup he had appropriated as its resting place and his mouth, leveled a look at me which might almost have been mistaken for fondness in men who indulge in such sentiments.
“Mr. Conger, allow me to sum up,” he murmured, yawning in a manner that caused the villain’s chaotic array of teeth to grind. “You have hosted Mr. James Phillimore at your doubtless highly refined and tasteful gaming parlor, plied him with opiates, and his debts are now onerous to you. You disavow to me hereby that you had anything whatsoever to do with his disappearance, am I correct? I suppose you rather slower than many other thugs of your stripe, but not so dense that you would consult me over a murder you actually committed. Very well—should I locate Mr. James Phillimore, and find him in a condition to settle his outstanding obligations, I shall encourage him to do the decent, provided you pledge in return your full cooperation as regards my investigation. Please bear in mind that, should you fail to be truthful with me, I will enjoy crushing you—that is, supposing my friend Dr. Watson here doesn’t get to you first. If your claims are honorable, I can at least assure you that I will not keep my own findings a secret. Now, quit the premises.”
The entire affair could have gone very ill at that moment. However, seething, the scoundrel growled a curse and did as he was asked, slamming the door behind him and causing my newly reinstated portrait of General Gordon to rattle in its frame. Where he had before looked thoughtful, now Sherlock Holmes appeared so introspective I might almost have called him anxious, tapping his pipe stem against his lip before carefully returning it to the porcelain.
“It appears that Mr. James Phillimore had reason to disappear after all. Are we likely to have any trouble?” I asked as I sat down, drawing an egg holder closer along with a spoon.
“No,” Holmes answered, frowning. “But I don’t care for it, I confess to you. This is a darker matter than merely vanishing in such an extraordinary fashion.”
I did not understand him, and thus a brief silence followed. When Holmes rolled his head in my direction and viewed me calmly slicing a thin piece of cured ham from his former target to accompany my egg, he laughed so heartily in his uniquely noiseless manner that camaraderie at once overtopped every other petty consideration, and I found myself chuckling helplessly at my as-yet-untouched plate.
“And to think that everyone assumes I am the mad one,” he reflected, making a rueful clucking sound.
“As the cat said to Alice, we are all mad here.”
“Watson, our regrettably obnoxious visitor has cleared my mind somewhat.” Holmes sprang to his feet, smoothing his dark hair back into orderli
ness. “Hurry and eat. I must dress. We must go.”
“I’ll just look up the trains to Middlesex,” I agreed.
“To Stepney,” he corrected me as he flew through the door of his bedroom.
“Describe Mr. Phillimore?” Mr. Timothy Greer, partner at the small and plain but seemingly bustling firm of Phillimore, Saxon, and Greer Textiles, repeated following my friend’s request.
Holmes had taken us with seemingly undue haste to Stepney, apparently to interview our client’s closest colleague, Mr. Greer. He was a spherical gentleman with the sort of open, generous bearing and healthy complexion which makes some lucky fellows seem far younger than their years, and well dressed, with the single rather theatrical addition of a maroon velvet waistcoat. Of course, surrounded in the warehouse by brilliant imported silks draped over dressers’ models and folded into the semblance of curtains on broad cutters’ tables, a single colorful vest was less likely to provide any visual impact. Mr. Greer appeared eager to please despite the ongoing need for his supervision around his hectic workplace, waving us over to a more private alcove equipped with a set of armchairs as my friend explained himself.
“One never knows when seeking a second opinion may prove invaluable, you see,” Holmes expounded. “Multiple interviews allow the investigator to gain a clearer perception of the world which gave birth to the point of crisis, like an archaeologist sifting through shards. I may not know what each fragment means until I have slotted them into their rightful places, but when all is reassembled, the picture of Rome’s fall grows far more complete.”
“Your imagery is most disturbing, sir. You think this a true emergency, then—that some tragedy has befallen James?”
“I did not say so, but cases of sudden disappearance demand we leave no stone unturned. And siblings are all too often rather blinded by intimate proximity. There may be aspects of his brother’s life that my client would have balked at relating in any salient detail. If you would be so kind, start from the beginning and tell me everything you can about Mr. Phillimore.”
“Of course.” The room was close despite its size, and Mr. Greer swiped his brow with an elegant flick of his kerchief as we all seated ourselves. “Anything I can do for the cause. I confess myself gratified to learn that you were called in, Mr. Holmes. The missing man—”
“Ah, but—I beg your pardon—I was not referring to Mr. James Phillimore,” Holmes objected, to my surprise, holding up a single finger. “If you would be so kind as to describe Mr. Edward Phillimore, however, your partner in the silk trade, I should be much obliged to you.”
“My business partner?” Mr. Greer again repeated, seeming as puzzled as I was. “The man who consulted you this morning?”
“Yes, quite so. Your partner Mr. Edward Phillimore seemed most distressed, and if the severity of his agitation could possibly have any bearing upon the case, it would behoove me to know of it.”
“Surely you don’t doubt his honest concern?” Mr. Greer exclaimed.
“On the contrary, his anxiety appeared entirely justified. But imagine that you are speaking to an expert in evaluating works of fine art. If I am to identify a painting as a hitherto undiscovered Andrea del Sarto, I must examine every brushstroke, every nuanced choice of pigmentation. I promise you that describing Mr. Edward Phillimore can only assist me in locating Mr. James Phillimore.”
“Because they are twins, and therefore so much in tune?” Mr. Greer wondered, his face clearing.
“Perhaps,” Holmes agreed cordially.
“Certainly I will do all I’m able, and you are right in thinking them exceedingly alike. Well, then . . . Mr. Edward Phillimore is a very steady, hardworking sort, but with a delicate constitution and a general air of extreme anxiety. It does not go unnoticed by strangers, and therefore it falls to me to fulfill many of the firm’s more social obligations. This affliction has haunted him since his youth, I regret to say—he was bullied dreadfully at school, or so I have gathered from melancholy hints, and his personality never regained that boisterous confidence so particular to free-spirited youth. In many ways, despite his good nature and his competence, Edward is a haunted man.”
“Apart from shyness, did his work suffer by this tendency toward fretfulness?”
“Never—as a matter of fact, on the contrary, Mr. Holmes. Edward is remarkably conscientious, and I should point out that this exactitude leads to the most gratifying care over his own affairs while failing to enter the realm of hardness toward others’ shortcomings. The man is no callous moralist. He is most devoted to his missing twin, for instance, and Mr. James Phillimore . . . I hesitate to say it, sir, but I am not entirely surprised at his uncanny absence. In his younger years, he was a dissolute character indeed, and Edward has multiple times been the saving of him during his direst lapses. Opium, drink, reckless wagers—his history is an extremely colorful one.”
“So we were given to believe.” Holmes tapped the arm of his chair with spindly fingers. “Might I venture to surmise that Edward’s devotion to the temperance cause stems from these cautionary experiences?”
“Without question. He is most passionate on the subject and wears the emblem of the organization daily.”
“Yes, I noted as much when he called upon me. Do you know of any particular incidents which might have left James open to blackmail attempts? Vices which fell upon the wrong side of the law?”
“Oh, I couldn’t say, Mr. Holmes.” Mr. Greer frowned as if regretful he could think of nothing more sordid to relate. “But Edward was always worrying over him, so I’d not rule out the possibility. It hurts me not to give his sibling a better character, but then again, neither could Edward were he sitting here in my stead.”
“Despite the inevitable strain caused by James’s destructive tendencies, was Mr. Edward Phillimore right to characterize their relationship as a close one?”
“They are loyal to one another entirely, sir, even when the missing sibling is at his lowest ebb. I hate to picture Edward’s state if anything has truly happened to James—it is as if each were only half-formed before birth, the reckless and vice-ridden one existing to be the other half of his esteemed counterpart. Have you ever read Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Mr. Holmes?”
“No, but surely you don’t mean to imply that there was but one Phillimore brother?”
“No indeed, but that was the way they acted—mirroring one another. I know it sounds fanciful, but there is often such intimacy between twins, though I have never before witnessed such dichotomy.”
Holmes pressed his finger along the edge of his arched brow, an innocuous gesture which I knew signaled grave concern. “Was either of the brothers inclined to fits of violent temper? You have mentioned that Edward struggled with despondency and nagging worriment. If his brother were ever threatened, does he seem the sort who might take matters into his own hands?”
“Heavens, Mr. Holmes, I cannot imagine such a thing. I’m sure he has always acted according to his conscience in all the many years we’ve been acquainted. And yet . . .” Mr. Greer paused. “Were James in danger, I can think of no lengths to which Edward would not go to protect his only kin.”
“Naturally not. One final question. When Mr. Edward Phillimore took his leave in order to seek out his missing brother three days ago, did he call round in person to tell you the news?”
“Why . . . well, come to think of it, no. He sent a wire. You are sure there is no further detail on which I can satisfy you?”
“I rather think that will be all. You have illuminated much, Mr. Greer.”
Holmes thanked the affable Mr. Greer efficiently and we quit the silk warehouse for the briny air of London’s busiest maritime district, surrounded by unadorned manufactories and glum tenements housing the families which scraped out a living from the frenzied commercial hive engulfing them. My friend, to my bemusement, seemed grimly satisfied by the previous conversation. He turned to me
with a statement on his lips, hesitated, shook his head, and set off in search of a cab.
“My dear Holmes, what is the matter? Mr. Greer just confirmed what we already know in every particular,” I pointed out as he whistled at an approaching driver. “He may as well have painted us an exact portrait of Edward Phillimore as he appeared in our sitting room this morning.”
“I know,” admitted Holmes. “Which profoundly worries me.”
Enfield is justly credited for its meadows, its lush greenery, its sixteenth-century palace, and the charm of its local markets, but since the arrival of the railway’s branch line, it has become a haven for all the plentiful folk who wish to find useful employment in London and are willing to submit themselves to a daily journey. Having just quit the filthy cacophony of Stepney, I could see the immediate advantage in sacrificing time for a suitable living space. The air was sweeter, the houses were neat and cleanly, and the very daylight seemed the more wholesome in the absence of London’s grim atmospheric shroud.
After knocking, we were shown into a nicely arranged sitting room which eccentrically boasted a wide array of brilliant Kashmiri silks everywhere draped over furnishings and employed as wall hangings. The effect was, if a bit exuberant, decidedly cheerful, and further buoyed by a variety of sleek-leafed potted plants. A marmalade cat curled in a beam of sunshine at the edge of the settee, and despite the bachelor nature of the establishment, friendly domesticity suffused the chamber. Yet something in the air was amiss, the absent twin’s presence seeming to hover just out of sight in the reflections of portrait glass and the shadows of imperfectly closed doorways.
Mr. Edward Phillimore sat at a claw-footed writing desk, studying accounts. He glanced up when we approached, the gleam of renewed hope momentarily brightening his features. When Holmes removed his silk hat with all the sobriety of a physician making a tragic house call, the glad spark was replaced by a grimace.
