by David Marcum
Colour rose to Sweeting’s cheeks, only for his ire to flee him as quickly as it had come. “I confess that money has been tight of late. I was hoping the colonel might see his way to giving us something for the baby. Heaven knows we need it, what with my wife being unwell since the birth.” Shamefaced, he could not meet our eyes. “All I remember of the colonel’s agreement with Mr. Carol is something about a song he liked - but I can’t remember what it was. Does it matter? What’s the old drunkard been up to now anyway?”
“He has changed his tune,” said Holmes, “in every sense of the expression.” The briefest of smiles touched his lips. “Now, tell me, Mr. Sweeting, should the colonel find himself obliged to leave his home, would you be able to accommodate him?”
“He would be welcome. In fact, sir, I suggested to him that he move in with us. Well, it would help with the expenses, and he seemed a lonely sort.” His eyes wandered to the crowd, his thoughts distracted. “He talked about his wife as if she were still there, poor old fellow.”
“Very good. Thank you, Mr. Sweeting. You have been more than generous with your time.”
Holmes turned to depart, but I was inclined to linger. “Have you named the baby yet?” I asked.
“Bless you, sir, there’s not been time.”
“Might I suggest ‘Kathleen’? Colonel Warburton might appreciate the gesture.”
Sweeting brightened. “I believe he would. Kathleen it is. If you get the chance to tell him, I’d be obliged.”
After promising that I would, I joined Holmes outside on the steps, where he had taken the opportunity in my absence to light himself a cigarette.
“You found Mr. Sweeting convincing,” said he, offering his cigarette case to me.
“I thought him a most considerate fellow,” I replied, helping myself. “I cannot see how any blame can lie there.”
“Except that Warburton’s problems with Carol began after Sweeting suggested they share the expense of a house.”
I glanced at him. Holmes offered me a wintry smile.
“Colonel Warburton is a man of means. I discerned that much when I asked him about my fee. Yes, Watson, I saw your look of reproach at the time. It was a delicate means of approaching an indelicate subject to which I thought the colonel would disapprove. With money at stake, Sweeting would not be the first to use other means of persuasion to encourage his relative to change his mind. No, my dear fellow, do not look so downcast. The timing is perhaps unfortunate, nothing more.” He drew out his watch. “Now, what say you to a light supper at the Criterion before we depart for Muswell Hill? A long night awaits, and I sense your inner man will require sustenance before our encounter with the egregious Quentin Carol.”
I did not demur. I fear I made a poor companion that evening, for my mind was not on the meal. In the noisy surroundings of the West Room, I could think only that I had made matters worse for Warburton with my suggestion to Sweeting. I already doubted my instincts about the colonel’s condition. What if I had also misjudged his relative?
By the time we set out for Muswell Hill, I had convinced myself that Sweeting and Carol were in league against Warburton. As Alexandra Palace loomed large on the hill as we climbed above London, I was certain the night would end with the pair of them exposed in their schemes.
I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that the sudden stop of the cab took me by surprise. We were not at the colonel’s residence, but instead in the main thoroughfare of shops. At this late hour, the quaint parade of chemists, butchers, and bootmakers had their blinds drawn, their businesses closed for the day. It was only when I joined Holmes on the pavement that he explained.
“Venues for public entertainment close their doors at half-past-eleven,” said he. “Given the cost of a cab fare, our impecunious Mr. Carol may have elected to find somewhere closer to home for his performances. Since Warburton tells us he is home by midnight, I suggest we start here. Before we do, however, I suggest we dress accordingly.”
From his bag he drew out the two battered hats and offered one to me.
“A little subterfuge may loosen lips more readily than if we reveal our true purpose,” said he. “Have you perfected your east-of-Aldgate accent?”
Since I had not, I let Holmes take the lead.
The main parade was well served by public houses. After trying several without success, we found a bright, busy establishment half-a-mile from the centre of the town named The Hare and Hounds. A gaggle of patrons lounged about outside, talking and smoking, whilst from inside, above the chorus of voices, rose the tinny notes of a piano in dire need of retuning. With so many people and on a close night such as this, the interior was stifling, the atmosphere laced with the strong smell of stale beer and onions. We made our way to the bar where a fleshy-faced barman with an air of indifference was wiping glasses with a stained towel. It took him all his effort to give us the briefest of acknowledgements when we hailed him.
“And what can I do for you, gents?”
“Two pints of your finest,” said Holmes. “And information, if you will.”
The barman sighed. “The first I can do, but we’ll have to see about the second. The only thing that’s free around here is the air.”
Holmes pushed several coins across the bar. The barman reached for them, only for Holmes to cover them with his hand.
The barman sighed. “Who are you looking for?” He saw our reaction. “We don’t get no tourists in here, gents. If it’s directions you want, best ask a policeman. Now, what’s the name?”
“Quentin Carol.”
A ruddy-faced man leaning up against the bar let out a guffaw. The barman was moved enough to enjoy a chuckle of his own.
“How much does he owe you?” said he.
Holmes feigned ignorance.
“Well, you ain’t after hiring him, I’ll be bound. Unless you’re here to tell him he’s got that inheritance he was always talking about.”
“He has expectations?” said Holmes. “He never mentioned that to me.”
“Then more fool you for lending him money!” roared our companion.
The barman shook his head. “Now, now, Joe, Carol tells a good story.” He turned back to us. “We’ve all lent him money in the past, on account of his tall tales about how he’ll pay us back on account of his ‘expectations’.”
“Much chance of us ever seeing it again,” muttered Joe.
“Is he here?” asked Holmes. “I am anxious to see him.”
“Aren’t we all!” said the barman. “Truth is, gents, my guv’nor had to let him go over a week ago, after he got up to sing reeling drunk. Slurring his words, he was, and dripping in sweat like he’d been out in the April showers. Then there was his heartburn, always complaining about heartburn, he was. I told him he shouldn’t drink so much, and he said it was only thing that kept him going. Well, this ain’t the Albert Hall. We don’t ask much of our performers, but he was pushing his luck. Had been for some time. If the guv’nor is paying someone to do a turn, the least he wants is a decent song out of them.”
He nodded to the raised platform at the back of the house where a man in a loud checked suit and top hat perched precariously on his head was valiantly battling his way through a popular song. Every now and then, he would pause to add a jig to his performance or to dodge a flying tomato. A particularly rotten specimen flew past his head and splattered itself against the wall, where it slowly oozed its way down to the floor. The barman heaved a weary sigh, and I imagined that the task of clearing up the mess would fall to him.
“Do you know where Mr. Carol lives?” asked Holmes.
Our drunken companion sniggered. “The arms of a woman, I’ll be bound.”
The barman scowled at him. “Wherever he is, gents, he’s doing well for himself, I know that.”
“What makes you so certain?”
&n
bsp; “Well, I don’t know about you, gents, but I can’t afford to walk away from my wages, can you? But that’s what Carol did. After he left here that night, that was the last we saw of him. Didn’t come back for his wages. Not that there was much left after the guv’nor deducted the bill he had run up at the bar.”
“If he don’t want them,” spoke up Joe, “I’ll have the money. He still owes me ten shillings from last Christmas.”
Holmes relented and let the barman have his reward. As we turned to leave, the fellow had one parting shot.
“And another thing,” said he, spitting on glass before polishing it, “his name’s not Quentin Carol. That’s just his stage name. It’s John Dickson you need to be looking for.”
“Failing that,” slurred Joe, “ask for ‘Drunken Dick’. They’ll know who you mean.”
Outside in the fresh air, Holmes rubbed his hands together briskly and his eyes glowed with exultation.
“It has been a profitable evening,” he declared with relish. “Now, I think, we should keep our appointment with Colonel Warburton, for it is past eleven. It has been a commonplace little problem, though not without features of interest.”
A brisk walk brought us to Warburton’s residence a little after the half-hour. The colonel was waiting for us, although our entrance alerted the attentions of the landlady, a matronly woman with rags tied in her hair who came into the hall in her dressing gown to see who had called so late in the day.
“Visitors for you, Colonel,” she cooed. “Ah, that’s nice. I keep telling him he needs more friends, don’t I, Colonel?”
Warburton looked pained. “Indeed you do, Mrs. Crawley.”
“Will you be staying long?” she enquired of us. “I don’t want my other tenants disturbed.”
“We wish only to hear Mr. Carol sing,” said Holmes. “Colonel Warburton tells me his performances are superb. Is he home?”
“He was earlier. I took his supper up to him before we went out singing. That nice Mr. Elliot was just leaving.”
“You saw him?”
She stared at him as though the question was impertinent. “Of course, I did. He was sitting at that easel of his. You think I don’t know my own tenant!”
With that, she turned on her heel and returned to her own quarters. Warburton led the way up the stairs, and my physician’s eye could not help but note the effort it took him. At every half-landing, he was obliged to pause to catch his breath before continuing up to the second floor.
“The third floor is occupied solely by Carol?” asked Holmes when we reached the door to the colonel’s room.
Warburton nodded.
“Mrs. Crawley is assiduous in her cleaning duties?”
“She leaves something to be desired,” grunted the colonel.
“I ask because of this.” Holmes stooped and gathered up several small white granules, which were clinging to edge of the first step leading up to the attic.
“What is it?” asked Warburton.
“Salt, unless I am much mistaken.” Holmes licked one of the granules and nodded before brushing them from his hands. “Curious, is it not?”
“It hardly seems relevant to me,” said the colonel, gruffly. “Will you come in now, gentleman?”
Warburton’s room was as he had described it. Spartan in appearance, and stripped of any extraneous clutter. His only extravagance extended to a daguerreotype in a silver frame of a woman whom I took to be his wife, and a rather poorly executed oil painting of porticoed buildings rising above a canal. Holmes had taken an interest in it and was staring at it intently.
“Mr. Carol’s work, I presume.”
“It is,” stated Warburton. “I paid him a guinea for it.”
“Is this typical of his work?”
“I believe so. He told me that he always paints the same scene.”
“And this is your much-vaunted view.”
Holmes had turned to the window. I joined him. In the distance, grey London stretched before us, its perpetual haze punctuated in places by the gloomy spectre of a church spire or chimney.
“I can see why you chose this room,” said I.
“On a clear day,” said Warburton, “you can see St Paul’s. Not very often though, I grant you. I blame the railways. All that smoke, it can’t be good for us.”
Holmes took no part in this conversation. Instead, he had pulled up the sash, allowing the cool evening air to pervade the close interior. Then, to my surprise, he hauled himself through the opening and stood on the ledge.
“Be careful!” I cautioned him.
A moment later, he was back.
“Who lives in the building next door?” he asked, brushing the clinging brick dust from his trousers.
“No one, as far as I know. The landlady died two months ago and the owners have yet to find a new tenant.”
“In my experience, empty properties do not remain so for long, whether occupied legally or otherwise.” He turned his head sharply in the direction of the door. “Ah, but the witching hour is upon us. Mr. Carol returns.”
In the silence that fell between us, from outside came the creak of the stair and a regular heavy footstep as someone made their way up to the attic.
“Should we not confront him?” I whispered.
Holmes shook his head. “Better that we beard him in his den, Watson. Be patient. This mystery shall soon be at an end.”
The floorboards creaked above us, a door squeaked on its hinges, and there came the sounds of someone shuffling about. Then, after a pause, rose up a thin, reedy voice with a shambling rendition of ‘Love’s Old Sweet Song’. No sooner had the singer struggled through the first line than Holmes had thrown back the door and started up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. He was a little ahead of me when he reached Carol’s door and put his shoulder against it, causing it to give way under the force of the impact. The singing abruptly stopped to be replaced with a cry of alarm. I was in time to see a figure with red cheeks, bushy eyebrows, and an untidy mop of greying hair clamber backwards away from us, causing his armchair to tip over and deposit him on the floor.
He struggled to his feet. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?” he stammered. “Who are you?”
Holmes smiled thinly as Warburton finally joined us. “This gentleman you should recognise. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. We came to congratulate you on your performance. But you will need to sing no more, Mr. Elliot.”
“Elliot?” said Warburton. “What the devil - ?”
The man trembled. His shoulders shook and he collapsed to his knees, the very model of a broken man.
“You see, Colonel,” said Holmes, “Quentin Carol was indeed dead the morning you found him. In informing his nephew of that fact, you gave him a shock. Your mistake was in not telling anyone else, allowing Mr. Elliot to plan his deception. This business was never intended to make you question your sanity, Colonel, but it was designed to make the people who live here believe that Quentin Carol was alive and well, and thus they would be able to testify to the fact if necessary. He adopted his uncle’s appearance and kept to his routine. When the landlady called with his meals, he constructed a dummy to take Carol’s place so that the two could be seen together. It is true he neglected to collect the wages owed to his uncle by his former employer, but that could be explained by Carol’s expectation of money, as indeed it was. The critical mistake was in not knowing the song his uncle would sing to appease his downstairs neighbour. Isn’t that right, Mr. Elliot?”
The sobbing man managed a few desultory nods of his head. “I never meant any harm, sir.”
“And yet harm has been done,” said Holmes. “You have caused Colonel Warburton great distress of mind.”
Elliot raised his head and for the first time I saw through the whi
skers and wig to see the eyes of a young man, burning bright with fear and guilt.
“I thought the business would be over by the time he got back,” Elliot said. “And when he returned, I thought I could convince him he had been mistaken.”
“The devil you did, sir!” said Warburton hotly. “But why, Mr. Holmes? What is the meaning of this?”
“An inheritance is at the heart of the business, Colonel. You may have read in the newspapers that the noted statesman, Sir Edward Dickson, suffered an apoplexy several weeks ago and is not expected to live. The man you knew as Quentin Carol was in fact John Dickson. What relation was he to Sir Edward?”
“Second cousins,” said Elliot. “In his prime, my uncle sang at the funeral of Sir Edward’s mother. He never forgot his performance and always promised that he would remember him in his will.”
“Hence Carol’s tale to his creditors about having expectations. In turn, Carol promised to leave all his worldly goods to you.”
Elliot wiped away his tears and for the first time dared to meet Holmes’s eyes. “Not that he had much. The inheritance would have been useful, though. I was hoping to marry. If only he had lived another month!”
He let out a cry of anguish and fell to sobbing again.
“This is all very well,” said Colonel Warburton, “but if Mr. Carol is dead, where is he now?”
In response, Holmes moved to the closed door of the bedroom. Opening it, he gestured for us to join him. Inside was a large steamer trunk, bound shut with straps. Undoing the buckles, Holmes lifted the lid to reveal the ghastly contorted face of Quentin Carol. He was in a cramped position, with his knees drawn up to his chest, and all around him was packed salt.
“The salt I discovered on the stair confirmed my theory as to the location of Carol’s body,” said Holmes. “The absence of most of the tenants allowed Elliot to transport the quantities needed for the concealment into the house without detection. Elliot’s theatrical associations provided him with the materials necessary to complete his transformation into his uncle.”
“By thunder, this is inhumane!” raged Warburton. Turning on Elliot, he grabbed the grovelling fellow by the lapels and, calling upon strength for which I should not have given him credit, shook him until his teeth rattled. “Did you kill him?” he demanded.
