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The position of my friend Sherlock Holmes as a purely unofficial consultant has been of use to him throughout his career, primarily in the great freedom it allows him to pursue his investigations in whatever manner he prefers. The other advantage he gains from it, however, is less innocent: he has complete discretion at the end of a case to determine for himself what action should be taken, irrespective of the wishes of the official police or even his own client. I must say that I have never known his judgements in these matters to be anything but sound, and that his whims have always served only to forward the aims of universal justice, though they may baffle the agents of human law.
It was early May in the year of 1895, and the papers were full of what Holmes, despite his usual interest in crime, snarlingly referred to as “trivialities.” Finished with a complicated matter which had occupied him for some time, he was restless, as was common when the world refused to satisfy his desire for intrigue, and I was attempting to read the less sensational pages of the paper while ignoring his pacing and fits of activity. Suddenly there came the slam of the front door, an exclamation of shock from Mrs. Hudson, and the thumps of footsteps on the stairs. Holmes turned toward the door like a pointer, his ears nearly pricking up with interest.
The door opened to the man who had caused the disruption. He was in the disorder that might be expected from his entrance, but his clothes were very fine, and he showed little sign of exertion – properly enough, for his build said clearly that he was a man of action. He was tall, dark, and young, and his small eyes glanced at me before focusing on my companion.
“Mr. Holmes,” he said, his voice full of confidence. “I need your assistance to recover my wife.”
Now that he was assured of some excitement, Holmes bore an air of calm inconceivable to one who had seen him but moments before. “Indeed?” he asked. “Do sit down, sir, unless she has been abducted from the altar just this minute. For I see that you are in fact not yet married?”
“My fiancée, then,” said he. “But I am determined to have her, whatever she says. That may sound odd to you, but she has only had a little fit of pique and shall return to me shortly, I know, if she is not first borne away by the ruffian she has fallen in with now.”
Holmes sat himself, and gestured our still standing guest to a chair. “Why don't you begin at the beginning,” he asked, “and give us a summary of your position.” At the man's frown in my direction he added, “This is my friend Dr. Watson, whose discretion you may trust as you may my own. But come, you have not even introduced yourself.”
“I am James Price,” said our guest, throwing himself into a chair, “owner of two major potteries in Staffordshire, but I make my primary residence in London. You have heard of Price China? No? Well, you may hear of us soon. My father founded the first one, but they were barely making a profit until I inherited. I intend to expand soon, after my wedding, which is what I was about to tell you of.
“My fiancée is a widow – quite young, though – Mrs. Charles Somers. Her husband was in the City, and did very well for himself – I have heard he was thought of as quite a prodigy – before dying quite suddenly at a very young age. He was sailing to Ireland, to learn of some securities there which he was thinking of purchasing, when the boat was caught in a sudden unexpected storm and due to the negligence of the crew, as it was later determined, it went down and only very few were able to make use of the life-boats. He was drowned somewhere off the coast of Wales, then, and she was left very well off. This was two years ago, and a year later I met her and took to her, and decided I should have her. It is not the money, for I can make my own. The money would be of no importance if it was not for the lady herself.”
“Of course,” said Holmes. “Pray continue.” There was a note of boredom in his voice, very well hidden to one who did not know him as well as I, and I suspected that he had hoped for something more in line with his talents than chasing after a jilt.
“I courted her, and she was quite amenable, and at last we were engaged. She took quite an interest in my business, which was gratifying. Indeed, I took her up to see the pottery works, and she asked many very bright questions. We were to be married two weeks from today, and I have already been planning some work to be done after the wedding.
“Now, to what has happened. She had taken to going for long walks, so that she was often absent if I called.”
“One moment,” said Holmes. “When did she begin to do so?”
“She only started after our return from Stoke-on-Trent.”
“Did she give any explanation for them?”
“Only that she enjoyed seeing the sights, and often went to parks. We did walk quite a lot in Staffordshire.”
“Very well. Continue.”
“Three days ago, she was on one of these walks when I visited. I was told that she would return soon and asked to wait. She took longer than I had expected, and I was not in the best humour when I heard her enter and talk with her parlourmaid. And then she entered the drawing room I was in, holding the hand of a fellow I had never seen before. I was most startled, and asked what she meant to take such liberties.”
“‘Oh James,’ she said, ‘You will be shocked, but he is my husband!’
“Oh yes, you may well be surprised, and I certainly was, but she ran across the room to fetch a photograph she had of him, and showed me. It was certainly a startling resemblance, but I could not truly believe it, and there were definite differences – I don't know if they could all be put down to his having disappeared for two years. That is what I wish you to prove for me: that this man is not her husband, and is deceiving her.”
“Surely a woman can be expected to know her own husband,” I said.
“I believe she is merely deluding herself through her grief for him,” said the manufacturer. “If this man had learned something of her, he could use it to deceive her through her own wishful thinking into giving him a life of luxury.”
“I have never heard of such extreme self-deception as that,” said Holmes.
“But I tell you you are hearing of it at this minute. What other possible explanation could there be?”
“What indeed?” Holmes asked with heavy sarcasm. “And what was his story?”
“It seems that due to his long time in the water on a makeshift raft, and a blow to the head he received when the ship sank, he lost his memory and was compelled to work his way back to London. By chance he had caught sight of his wife's face as she was walking that day, and at once his memory returned to him, and he shouted her name. She could not believe it was him at first, but he showed so much knowledge of their marriage that she knew it must be, and now, though she begged my forgiveness, our marriage must be impossible and she hoped I would believe she would be very happy. You are a doctor,” he said, turning to me, “tell me, is this at all likely, that a man should lose his memory in such a way and then so suddenly recover it?”
“I suppose it is possible,” I said, “though I cannot remember hearing of any case exactly as you say. The events are certainly enough to cause some amnesia, and it has been known that a familiar face or name may recover a man to himself, but bearing in mind that I am not a specialist in brain-fevers I think it unlikely.”
“Hmm,” said Holmes. “How was he found after the shipwreck?”
“He drifted to Wales, where he made his way to a town, did some odd job work, and then over time went to London – he says he felt some subtle inexorable pressure driving him.”
“And what did he look like when she brought him in?”
“Dressed like a working man, but very clean for one. He was quite similar in looks to her photograph, but unshaven and untidy. He also seemed thinner and weaker – he said from his ill health after his time at sea. His accent was that of a gentleman, but that can be faked. I was suspicious at once, but she did not listen to a word I said. She has broken our engagement and invited him to live in her home as her husband, and so I have come to you in fear that she is being deceived.”
“In some hurry,” said Holmes.
“Yes. Once I determine upon a course of action I carry it out at once.”
“Clearly. How did Mrs. Somers meet her first husband?”
“She told me they knew each other as children, and had always had a close attachment to each other.”
“Did he have any brothers?”
“Oh, is that your thought? There was a brother, I think, but I believe he may have died, or been cut off from the rest of the family. She only mentioned him once, and I think there was some sort of scandal attached to the matter. Of course, I did not like to enquire too closely. I don’t know anything else about him.”
“Very well. Do you have a photograph of her first husband?”
“What would I be doing with a thing like that? No, I don’t.”
“Quite so. What is her address?” He gave it.
“Well,” said Holmes. “I must consider. I am extremely busy at the moment.” At this bare-faced lie I endeavoured to keep my own face clear of shock. “I will inform you if I can perhaps make time for your case. You will hear within a week.”
“A week, man! The whole world will have heard of it by then. I want this cleared up quickly, before any scandal attaches to her – what will people think?”
“I am afraid I can give you no guarantee that I will be able to take your case at all. Right now I am engaged in matters that are just as delicate for clients I am afraid I cannot name.” Holmes stood and gestured our guest in the direction of the door, moving toward it himself. “You will hear from me in a week, perhaps earlier. I can offer you no certainty, but trust me that I will make every effort to clear things up. I am afraid I must ask you not to call again unless I send for you. Good day, Mr. Price.” The man was so disconcerted by Holmes’ manner and flood of speech that he left without a word of protest. Holmes flung himself onto a chair, chuckling to himself.
“Well, Watson!” said he. “That was an interesting visitor. What do you make of him?”
“He seemed very abrupt and dictatorial in his manner.” At Holmes’ expectant look I added, “I should say he had played rugby at University, by his build.”
“Capital, Watson! What else can you deduce from that?”
I ignored this. “My dear Holmes, I know you have nothing pressing – you were complaining of it at breakfast. Why would you put him off with such an excuse instead of simply telling him whether or not you will solve his case?”
“I have solved it.”
“What?”
He smiled. “It is so easy to surprise you, Watson. More accurately, I have a theory, which I expect I can confirm with two visits. I think I might busy myself about the matter, purely out of curiosity. However, if I am right as to my estimation of our guest’s character, I am not certain of what course to take afterwards.”
“What do you mean, Holmes?”
“Nothing, Watson – all depends on conjecture right now. Oh, if I may call upon your medical expertise?”
“Of course.”
“The husband’s story of amnesia and an injury and such – you are the doctor, not I, but I think you were rather mild in your diagnosis.”
“As I am not an expert, I did not wish to be so definite in front of your client,” I said, “but really I do not think it at all likely. A man may lose hours, days, even, I have heard, years, of his life, but he is unlikely to completely forget his identity, or to so suddenly regain it. And of course if he had a concussion it is remarkable that he did not drown.”
“Good, good,” he said. “That is what I thought.”
“So he cannot be her husband, then.”
“We cannot be sure. There is still the possibility that it may be he, lying about his death – however, I highly doubt it. But I must have more data. This case interests me, Watson, it interests me – though perhaps not in the ways our would-be client might hope. Well, I’m off, then.”
“Where to?”
“To the lady herself, and then to an old friend of mine.”
“Can I be of assistance?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you interested in this case, Watson? It is quite simple, and there certainly won’t be anything for you to write up.”
“I am always interested in your work.”
“Hmm. Well, you cannot help with the lady. There, I must be in disguise, and alone. Now, a poor woman would be easier. But a rich widow – I don’t think I shall be able to meet her, but I can at least talk to her servants. The other visit – perhaps. I shall return for tea, then. Excuse me.”
He disappeared into his room and reemerged smiling a few minutes later in the character of a disreputable groom, which I recognized as one of his favourite disguises.
“See you, Watson,” he said in a Cockney accent on his way out the door.
He returned in his own person around teatime, rubbing his hands together with glee. “It went well, then?” I asked.
“Excellent, Watson, excellent. I have seen the husband.”
“Did you need to?”
“It should prove useful, at the least. And better, talked to the servants. She must be a remarkable woman – they are all very devoted to her. I have not learned anything I had not suspected, but it is good to have it confirmed. I think I have found the motives behind all this now. To Richardson, then, and this should all be made quite clear.”
“Richardson?”
“A friend of mine. Will tea be soon? I did not have lunch.”
“I have just rung.”
“Ah, good. Hullo, Mrs. Hudson! What delicacies do you have for us today?”
Halfway through the meal, Holmes gestured toward the paper with its lurid headlines and sketches of the court proceedings and said, “What do you think of all that, Watson?”
“That? I thought you didn’t care for the matter.”
“I don’t. And you?”
I considered. “A man capable of such work should not be hounded like a fox. What good will it do anyone?”
“You have seen his plays, then?”
“Some of them, with Mary. They are excellent. Dorian Grey was magnificent. And now, it seems, all that talent will go to waste.”
“Ah,” said Holmes. “I quite agree.”
Shortly after tea, he rose and reached for his hat. “You can come if you like, Watson,” he said. “I know I can trust to your discretion.” Flattered, I followed him.
“By the way,” said Holmes, summoning a hansom, “I first met Richardson under the name of Corvus, so don’t be surprised that he still uses it. It’s purely a formality, Watson,” he added at my worried glance, “you needn’t fear any danger where we are going.” With that cryptic utterance he boarded the cab. I could only follow him, and resign myself when he proved uninterested in telling me what sort of a man we were visiting.
We were let off at a well-kept house in Bloomsbury, quite unlike the more shady areas of London that my acquaintance with Holmes had taken me to in the past. The door was opened by an extremely proper butler, who ushered us into a parlour which held a finely dressed man with the slight eccentricity of manner common to artists. He was broad shouldered and had neat curled brown hair and a poet’s extravagance of gesture.
“Ah, Corvus!” he said, rising. “How are you? And who is this?”
“This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson,” said Holmes. “Watson, this is Mr. Peter Richardson – P. H. Richardson, the poet.”
“Dr. Watson?” said Richardson, looking not at me but at Holmes. “A common name, but are you by any chance the author?”
I glanced at Holmes, unsure if he wished me to be known. “Don’t be modest, Watson,” he said, smiling with his easily assumed charm. I admitted that I was.
Richardson smiled. “Indeed? I greatly admire your stories, doctor. They’re very diverting. Do you enjoy them as well, Mr. Corvus?”
“I find them rather unrealistic,” said Holmes. From him, this was nearly praise. “Now, then, if we may begin?”
“So, Corvus, I cannot fool myself that you came for the sheer pleasure of my company?”
“No,” said Holmes, “I came for the usual reason.”
“By now you owe me so many favours that I could ask you to burgle Windsor Castle. And,” he added, grinning at Holmes, “I expect you could do it, too.”
“If you would prefer another method of compensation,” Holmes began, to be cut off by Richardson’s hand.
“Corvus,” he said. “I like you. I respect you. I think you do some good. Money I can get from anyone, and who is to say that eventually I wouldn’t? Continue, then. Who is it this time?”
“A Mr. Somers,” said Holmes. “Tall, thin, with dark hair and grey eyes, and a rather pointed face.”
“Oh yes, Richmond Somers,” said Richardson, smirking. “I know him very well.”
“I thought you might,” said Holmes, drily amused. There were layers upon layers here, and I could only barely grasp at them, but even the little I could piece together left me speechless with shock.
“He is a Uranian, if you needed confirmation. Do you know where he has gone, then?”
“I believe so. When did he go?”
“Only a week ago. He was rather preoccupied for days, and then told his friends that in light of the news he was going to settle some matters, and he should return soon enough. But he wouldn’t tell anyone where, and as I believe his family no longer wish to know him I can’t imagine what he is doing. I would be much obliged if you can tell me.”
Holmes considered for a moment. “I think it likely that he will return, indeed, and soon. He has met a friend of his from childhood, and has entered into an arrangement with her for their mutual safety.”
“Very vague, Corvus. Do you mean that he intends to marry?”
“Not quite, but the result is the same.”
“Corvus, you are impossible. I take it, then, that he is keeping close to her to ensure all know of his affection for her, and he will visit us again soon when he feels ready?”
“I assume so, though I cannot be certain.”
“Very well then. I’ll inform Carstairs, he’s been worried. You can’t give me his address, can you? No, of course not. No doubt he’ll tell us whatever he thinks is necessary. Is there anything else?”
“No, but thank you very much for your information. I am afraid I can tell you no more of your friend.”
Richardson stood to show us to the door. “By the way,” he added, “you’re lucky you came today. This time tomorrow I shall be in France. It’s a difficult time, Corvus.”
“It is,” said Holmes. “I wish you luck, and that you enjoy Paris. Good afternoon.”
In the hansom he leaned back and said, “Well, that seems to have cleared it all up nicely.”
“The false husband is in fact the lady’s brother-in-law, then?”
“Yes. Do you see all the facts now, Watson?”
“I confess I am not certain of them. I should like an explanation of your reasoning.”
“Of course, of course. When we return.” His lips twitched in his usual smug smile at the end of a case and he said nothing more on the rest of the drive.
“It was all very simple, of course, Watson,” he said later, as we sat together over our pipes before dinner, “once I realized that Price was lying to me.”
“Lying! How so?”
“The obvious. His business is failing – slowly, but failing still. I fancy we may lay the fault at his own shoes, as the effect of his management after his father's death. He was brought up wealthy, and became accustomed to a very high style of life. But now he is beginning to go into debt to maintain it. You noted a certain carelessness in his habits and speech – no? Alas, Watson, you've something to learn yet. But at least you will agree with me that a man who is so adamant that his marriage has nothing to do with the fortune he has laid such stress on is rather revealing the opposite.”
“Yes.”
“Then, there is his method of entrance. He wished to give an impression of urgency to ensure that I would take his case. There was clearly no true reason for such haste. He wants to impress others with his own importance. I suppose it may have worked on his fiancée, at first. But then, of course, she learned about his habits.”
“What habits?”
“Hmm. His debts are due not only to his personal expenditures but also – sorry to shock you, Watson – to his tendency to give expensive presents to his mistresses, some of whom, like most of our upstanding industrialists, he takes from among his workers. I deduced it from a milliner’s bill in his pocket, as well as many other indications; I expect his fiancée saw some sign of it when visiting the factory. Her servants were most useful in confirming all this. Anyway, it was clear enough that the lady had good reason to wish herself free of the match without scandal. From the first I doubted the story – it was far too convenient. It might in fact be that her husband, having faked his own death either without her knowledge or in some sort of conspiracy with her, had returned, but there seemed nothing to gain from that, so I dismissed it.
“Clearly she could not be an innocent dupe. It is inconceivable that a man could convince a woman he had never met that he was one whom she had known most intimately, and highly unlikely that she would not have recognized him had she met him before. It is obvious, then, that Price’s theory is utterly ridiculous, and we can discard it. Therefore the woman must be lying in order to get out of her engagement, for whatever reason. Furthermore, she seems to have been specifically looking for the man before he arrived.”
“Looking for him?”
“Well, it is the most likely explanation for the change in her habits. A young woman begins to take very long walks in the middle of the afternoon, to no apparent purpose – it is unlikely she had suddenly acquired a concern for her health, or a desire for the wholesome London air.” He gestured to the window, beyond which Baker Street was slowly being engulfed by yellow fog. “Either she had begun to make appointments every day with someone, a lover, perhaps, or she was seeking someone out. But it could not be a lover. She would not have accepted Price’s proposal if she had any other connections. Remember that he needed to marry her more than she him. So I concluded she must have been seeking someone out, likely just for this purpose.
“It is highly improbable she would simply happen upon a man with such a resemblance to her husband, and more improbable that any woman of sense would be so foolish as to give a stranger such power over her, or allow him to live with her in such intimacy. So, if she wanted a man she knew well, who resembled her husband, and whom she knew to be honourable – you see, all signs pointed to it being the brother, if only I could find out that he was still alive and had not been cast from his family for any too heinous crime. As she had been childhood friends with her husband, she would have known him for just as long, and be nearly as well acquainted with him before whatever scandal there was.”
“I found out a little from the servants in that vein, and much more from observing the behaviour of the man himself, whom I fortunately saw leaving just as I was and followed for a while. He went nowhere interesting, but mere observation was itself useful. And so I was confirmed in my suspicion that Richardson might have the answer. Richardson knows everyone in his particular ... sphere, and is kind enough to assist me if I need it.”
“But how did you come to know him?” I asked.
Holmes smiled. “When I was young and gullible -” he began, and I could not help but laugh. “No, truly, Watson, as gullible as a schoolgirl in love. I was told in the course of investigating the perverse murder of James Tarleton that he had been involved in a criminal underground in London with connections to all the worst dregs of society, and so I went to investigate it. I was terribly frustrated when I saw no evidence of crime – that is, the sort of crime I was interested in – in Tarleton’s refined artistic circles.
“When I realized they were not, in fact, deceiving me and that I had seen all that was there, I moved to more fruitful lines of enquiry. But Richardson was of some assistance, and very grateful to me for clearing the case up, though he did not know my identity. At the time, that is. I expect he must know by now, but he has obligingly not mentioned it. I kept up my acquaintance with him, which has often proved very useful. You understand, Watson, that I have no interest in persecuting men for crimes which harm no one and require no investigation or thought whatsoever to discover.”
I realized that in the course of his explanation I had without thinking stood and moved to the side of his chair. He began to methodically refill his pipe.
“It seemed your relationship with Richardson was more personal,” I said, which was the closest I could come to asking the question I wanted to ask him. “You have never shown any interest in women, beyond perhaps Miss Irene Adler.”
“Miss Adler’s brain was fascinating, I grant,” he replied. “But in fact I have no interest of that kind in anyone at all.”
“You mean, you avoid it as it would distract you from your work?”
He lit the pipe, his hands gracefully wielding the match. “Well, I am sure it would distract me, had I ever felt it in the first place.”
“Is that possible?”
“My dear Watson, I assure you it is. I am happy enough with my life at present, and would not wish it otherwise.”
His tone indicated that he meant this as an end to the subject. His eyes looked up at me with something that might, perhaps, be called fondness, and I found myself smiling back.
“So what will you tell Price, then?” I asked. “Are you going to inform him that there is no legal objection to his nuptials?”
“There may indeed be no legal objection, but I find I agree with the lady that there are objections all the same. If she and Somers find their arrangement congenial, I have no desire to interrupt it. I have telegraphed Price saying that I have found the clearest evidence that Somers is in fact the lady’s husband, and that I find myself too busy to discuss the matter with him further. I hope that will leave matters in a way that shall be agreeable to all, or at least most, parties, and now, my dear Watson, I find myself with two tickets for Tchaikovsky and the hope that you will join me in an evening which shall be equally agreeable to us.”