“What boys?”
“There are two teen-age boys in the aerostat to work the equipment,” Moriarty told him. “And if either of them is hurt, you will answer for it!”
“We thought you were on the balloon, Professor,” Lestrade said in what he hoped was a conciliatory tone. “Mr. Holmes said you were escaping.”
“Escaping? From what? The aerostat is tethered, as you can see for yourselves if you’d bother to look.” Moriarty indicated the one cable which was still uncoiling from the ground and following the balloon into the heavens.
A Chinese gentleman in dark robes and a close-fitting cap came scurrying across the lawn from the house. “They are unhurt,” he called to Moriarty. “My son wishes to be informed as to what is going on down here, but neither of them was injured by the cannonade. What is going on down here?”
“Gentlemen,” Moriarty said, “may I introduce my friend and colleague, Prince Tseng Li-Chang, fourteenth in line for the throne of Imperial China. His son, Low, at whom you were shooting in the aerostat, is fifteenth in line. They are here in exile, under the personal protection of her majesty, Queen Victoria. Prince Tseng, let me present Inspector Giles Lestrade of Scotland Yard, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
“You were shooting at my son?” Tseng demanded, glaring alternately at Lestrade and then at Holmes. “Why were you doing this? Are you agents of the Empress Dowager?”
Lestrade sighed. “I am afraid we have made a mistake,” he said. “Please accept my apologies, and the apologies of the Yard.”
“Mistake!” Moriarty snorted. “You’ll be back in uniform tomorrow, Lestrade, if Prince Tseng complains to her majesty. You’ll be lucky not to lose your pension.”
“In my country,” Prince Tseng interjected, “they would suffer the death of a thousand knives for shooting at a royal heir.”
“Let me try to explain, Professor,” Lestrade said.
“I can’t imagine any possible explanation for what just went on here,” Moriarty said, “but it will be fascinating to hear you try. Unfortunately I have no time now. We have a lot of work ahead of us, Prince Tseng and I and the two lads, and we cannot take the time right now. We are commencing a night of astronomical observations by a specially constructed aerostat-carried telescope.”
“So you say,” Holmes said, “but then what are you doing down here?”
Moriarty turned to glare at him. “The lads are up there to expose photographic plates. They send them down on small parachutes attached to the tethering cable, which also contains a telegraphic wire. We stay down here to develop the plates. Now please leave us alone for the remainder of the night. You have a warrant—go and search the house. Try to refrain from shooting up the furniture.”
“Assassins!” Prince Tseng exclaimed.
“I think we’d better go,” Lestrade said. “We don’t have to search the house. We’ll just go back to the city now. Can we talk about this sometime, Professor? I mean, without bringing her majesty into the discussion?”
“Monday,” Moriarty said. “Come by and see me at Russell Square on Monday. I’ll speak to the prince.”
“I have a warrant,” Holmes said. “I intend to search the house.”
Lestrade looked from Holmes to Moriarty to Prince Tseng, who was glowering at them with unconcealed hostility. “Come along, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “We’ll go now.”
ELEVEN
THE GENTLEMEN’S GENTLEMEN
Thus in the beginning the world was so made that certain signs come before certain events.
MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO
Upper Sedgwick Lane ran for two blocks south of Oxford Street, terminating abruptly at the high brick wall to the rear of Good Sisters’ Hospital. Despite the best efforts of the residents and shopkeepers, the lane degenerated into shabby disrepute as one traveled the two-hundred-yard length of that final block.
The blame, if any, could be laid at the door of Good Sisters’ Hospital. A massive rear door sheathed in heavy iron plate, studded with spikes and crusted with layers of muddy green paint, it was the only acknowledgment that Good Sisters gave to Upper Sedgwick Lane. And it was never used.
The front door of the hospital was on Beverton Street, a three-and-a-half-block semicircle from the lane. It was there that the carriages came and went, and there that the attentive doctors smiled and nodded at their respectable patients.
This sealed door was the subject of much speculation in Upper Sedgwick Lane. Rumor had it that in the darkest hours of the blackest nights, the green door opened.
In the dark of the moon, so the whisper went, mysterious carts, their wheels muffled with rags, would thump slowly over the ancient cobblestones and back up to the green door. Then the door would be opened by unseen hands, and corpses, wrapped in white linen, would be whisked inside. Why the carts were said to be delivering bodies to the hospital instead of taking them away was never discussed. That is what happened, everyone knew it. They hadn’t seen it themselves, but they could name two or three who had, if they hadn’t promised to keep their mouths shut.
Then there was the matter of the epigraph circumscribed around the hospital wall, which was always referred to by the lane’s residents as “them words.” The full and proper name of Good Sisters’ Hospital was “The Hospice and Sanitarium in Holy Charity of the Good Sisters of the Miraculous Scars of the Bloody Body of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.” The architect and builder of the hospital, one Matthew Creighton, had wrapped a frieze around the upper story of the structure with this title deeply chiseled thereon, intended to last until the final trumpet should make hospices redundant. And the portion of this full and proper name that happened, by some malicious chance, to come around on the Upper Sedgwick Lane side, two feet high and five stories up, in deep relief, was: ARS OF THE BLOODY BODY.
Upper Sedgwick Lane had never recovered from this indignity.
“It is by such fortuitous happenings,” Mr. Nathaniel Palmar told Barnett, “that the destinies of men and nations are determined. Were it not for Matthew Creighton’s infantile sense of humor—for there can be little doubt that the placement of the lettering on that infamous frieze was deliberate—then Upper Sedgwick Lane might not have slowly degenerated over the past hundred years. Had that not happened, then this fine old mansion, once the home of Admiral Sir George Tallbouys, would never have been available at such a remarkably reasonable price. And had it not, then the Gentlemen’s Gentlemen, through lack of a proper home, could never have come into being.”
“That would have been a shame,” Barnett said, running his hand over the dark mahogany woodwork of the entrance hall, with its patina of a hundred years’ polishing and waxing.
“It would,” Mr. Palmar agreed, “it would indeed.” He led the way into the guests’ parlor: a large room with a scattering of armchairs toward the front balanced by an ancient, well-used billiard table at the rear. “Yes, we owe a lot to Matthew Creighton. ‘For his work continueth,’ as the poet says, ‘far beyond his knowing.’ Were it not for the whimsical builder and the inadvertent benefactor, we would not be here.”
“The inadvertent benefactor?”
Mr. Palmar indicated a large oil portrait on the wall behind them. Done in the whimsically realistic style of the ’40s, it showed a portly gentleman with a choleric expression, wearing hunting tweeds and carrying a shotgun in the crook of his right arm and a brace of dead birds in his left hand.
Barnett peered at the brass plate under the portrait. “‘Sir Hector Billysgait,’” he read. “He was your benefactor?”
“It is a complex story involving an unexpected predeceasing, a residual legatee, and a gentleman whose taste for practical jokes extended even to the grave,” Mr. Palmar said.
“Fascinating!” Barnett said sincerely. He took out the small notebook that was his reporter’s disguise. “If you don’t mind telling me about it…”
“In brief,” Mr. Palmar said, “Sir Hector, though knighted for a service to the Crown, was merely the impoverished young
er son of a baronet. Impoverished only in terms of his family and class, you understand. It was a constant struggle for him to maintain his flat in the city and his various shooting boxes and fishing rights and the like. He hardly ever killed as many creatures in a year as he would like to have done. And his income ceased upon his death, the principal reverting to the entailed estate which progressed from eldest son to eldest son.”
“I see,” Barnett said. “The man had no money.”
“None to call his own,” Mr. Palmar agreed, “beyond the value of those possessions which he had acquired over a lifetime—rifles, shotguns, fishing tackle, framed oils of men killing animals in a variety of ways, and a remarkable variety of clothing for tramping through the woods and shooting at things or wading in mountain streams with a fishing rod.”
“So,” Barnett said.
“Over the long years of their relationship,” Mr. Palmar continued, “Sir Hector grew more and more in debt to his valet, Fellows. It was a gradual process—a couple of pounds borrowed here, a quarter’s wages unpaid there—but eventually the total grew to in excess of two hundred pounds. Which, although a comparatively small sum to someone of Sir Hector’s class, was a fortune to Fellows.
“Now Sir Hector was something of a practical joker. He promised Fellows, who was his junior by some twenty years, that he would leave him everything in his will. ‘Every penny I have,’ as he put it.”
“But,” Barnett interjected, “I thought he had no money of his own.”
“True,” Mr. Palmar agreed. “And when he died his income would cease. But his possessions remained part of his estate—those things he had bought over the years. And several of the firearms were of themselves worth well into the hundreds of pounds. Sir Hector did not stint himself.”
“I see,” Barnett said. “It still doesn’t sound like enough to purchase a building and endow a private club.”
“Ah,” Mr. Palmar said, “but here is where the hand of fate takes over, and a strange chain of events turns a practical joke into a legacy. May I offer you a glass of sherry?”
Barnett accepted the sherry, which proved to be a particularly fine Garrett d’Austine ’67. He sipped it, savored it, commented on its quality.
“Butlers and valets,” Mr. Palmar said, “are particularly well-placed to develop a fine palate for wines, especially fortified wines.” He sipped from his own glass and continued with the story he never tired of telling.
“Sir Hector died quite suddenly one morning in September, 1878. And he proved to be as good as his word. Exactly as good, and no better. Fellows was made residual legatee, meaning he was to have whatever was left over after all the specific bequests had been fulfilled. What quickly became apparent as the will was read was that the specific bequests would consume all of Sir Hector’s real and personal property. The only thing left for Fellows was the bit of actual money that Sir Hector had on his person and in his flat at the moment of his decease. It amounted, if I remember aright, to a trifle over thirteen pounds. Fellows was rather disappointed.”
“I can understand that.”
“But then it transpired that Sir Hector’s youngest brother, Sydney, who had been shooting in Bengal, had met with an untimely and very fatal accident. He was staking out a goat to attract a tiger when the goat, sensing perhaps that what was about to happen was not to his best interest, butted Sir Sydney in the stomach. Ruptured his spleen. It took a while for news of this to reach England. It actually happened several months before Sir Hector died.”
“I see,” Barnett said. “And Sir Hector was Sydney’s heir?”
“Sydney was still youthful enough to be unaffected by intimations of mortality. He never made a will. But they both had an elderly aunt named Agatha, who passed on about a week before Sir Hector. And thus, you see, a month or so after Sydney, although nobody realized it at the time.”
“Yes?”
“Dame Agatha had left her considerable private fortune to Sydney, long her favorite, to sustain himself with and to use for whatever good works he deemed appropriate. But as Sydney predeceased Dame Agatha, her estate went to Sir Hector. He died without ever knowing that he was a millionaire.”
“And the valet?”
“As residual legatee, Fellows suddenly found himself a man of considerable wealth. Since his unwitting benefactress, Dame Agatha, had wished part of her fortune to be used for good works, Fellows endowed the Gentlemen’s Gentlemen as a club for butlers and valets in service in London, along with a generous fund to take care of former or retired men of these professions who have fallen on hard times.”
“A fine gesture,” Barnett said, looking up from his notebook. “Is Fellows in residence here himself?”
“No longer,” Mr. Palmar said.
“I see,” Barnett said. “Has he, ah, passed on?”
“In a sense. He has moved to Paris. Having reverted to a family name which I am not at liberty to tell you, he has taken up painting in oils. Now, is there any other way in which I can be of service to you?”
“I think so,” Barnett said. “What brought me here in the first place, Mr. Palmar, was a Scotland Yard report that the two gentlemen’s gentlemen who were arrested on suspicion of murdering their employers this past week are both members of this club.”
“Ah!” Mr. Palmar said. “Lizzard and Margery. Yes, they are indeed. Let me point out, purely in the interest of accuracy, that they are both butlers. In current usage, the phrase ‘gentleman’s gentleman’ properly applies only to a valet.”
“I understand,” Barnett said. “Thank you for making that distinction. In my profession we strive for verbal accuracy, of course. But we need all the help we can get. Do you know Lizzard and Margery? Can you tell me anything about them?”
“I actually don’t know either of them too well,” Palmar said. “As club steward, of course, I am acquainted with all of our members, but both Lizzard and Margery were noticeably reserved with their confidences. Which is not unusual, you must understand; their vocations tend to encourage habitual reticence. I believe, however, that I can introduce you to someone who knows them both quite well.”
“I would appreciate that,” Barnett said.
“I shall go and see if he’s here.” Mr. Palmer excused himself and went off down the dark wood-paneled hallway. Barnett sipped his sherry and considered multiple murder. He composed his thoughts and began to construct the lead paragraph for the article he would write for the American News Service. A bit of philosophy to lead off. It would make the reader feel as though he were exploring the human condition instead of merely indulging a morbid curiosity.
As ripples in a pond, Barnett scribbled in his notebook, radiate from every stone, no matter how casually flung, so do unforeseeable consequences emanate from every human action, no matter how seemingly minor.
Barnett paused to chew on his pencil and stare down at the page. It read fairly well, he decided. After all, as an unforeseen result of this series of murders, Professor Moriarty, who was completely unconnected with the crimes, had been seriously inconvenienced by the unwarranted attentions of Sherlock Holmes and Scotland Yard. But surely any of the victims would rather have been seriously inconvenienced than have had his throat cut.
Barnett decided to work on the text of his article later, make a few notes first, and try to produce something that was actually worth saying. NOTE: he wrote large on the rest of the page, Murder is the worst crime of all. Why? Because it is the only one which cannot be taken back and cannot be apologized for.
Not a bad thought, Barnett decided, folding his notebook and sticking it back in his pocket. With a little work he should be able to get five hundred to a thousand words out of it.
Palmar came back down the hall. With him was a slender, stoop-shouldered man, whose intelligent brown eyes peered out of a face that was habitually set in a serious mien. “Mr. Barnett,” he said, “permit me to introduce Mr. Quimby. Mr. Quimby was, until recently, the valet for Lord John Darby. He has been staying with us sin
ce his lordship’s unfortunate demise, and has had occasion to become reasonably well acquainted with both Lizzard and Margery.”
“A pleasure,” Barnett said. “Please, sit here. You don’t mind if I ask you a few questions? I trust Mr. Palmar has explained what I’m here for.”
“A journalist,” Quimby said, continuing to stand.
Barnett sensed hostility. “That’s right,” he said, trying to look as open and honest as possible. “I’d like to talk to you about your friends Lizzard and Margery.”
“Why?”
“I am trying to gather information on the events surrounding the murders of their employers.”
“They were not responsible.”
“I am convinced of that also,” Barnett said.
“Scotland Yard does not seem to be. They have been placed under arrest.”
“I know. I believe that Inspector Lestrade was acting hastily.”
“That’s so,” Quimby agreed. “And it was the newspapers that made him do it. Long stories about how nobody was safe, not even the nobility. Not even in their own homes, or in their own beds. The people were becoming agitated, and the Home Secretary had to do something. Scotland Yard had to arrest somebody, and right quick, too, just to show they was doing their jobs.”
“There may be something in what you say,” Barnett admitted. “And if journalistic outcry caused your friends to be incarcerated, then perhaps a renewed outcry can get them released again.”
“The authorities will have to let them go soon anyway,” Quimby said, nodding with satisfaction. “Five killings all committed the same way, and the last while they were already locked up. It stands to reason.”
“Five?” Barnett asked, surprised. “I know of only four.”
“Five,” Quimby said. “And I’m the one who should know.”
“Let’s see,” Barnett said, counting on his fingers. “There’s Venn and Stanhope and Lord Walbine and Sir Geoffrey Cruikstaff—”
“And my late master,” Quimby said. “Lord John Darby.”
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