The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer

Chapter Thirteen: Concerning the Demise of Theodore Fairfax

Miles was at home when I called, and I found him stretched out on the sofa, a cigarette in one hand, a glass of whisky in the other. I was not so familiar with his habits to know whether this was his usual Tuesday afternoon occupation, although I did not discount that his apparent state of enervation had its roots in recent events, as did his sombre turn of dress.

Colourful Miles, more at home in burgundy velvets and purple silks, was now clad in uniform black, which had the result of stripping him of something of his character. But for the exquisite cut of the tailoring, he could have easily been mistaken by the average man in the street as a slightly disrespectable bank clerk who was long overdue for a haircut.

Shawn of his finery, he looked ordinary, which I supposed he was, for all my distaste for his way of life. Ordinary enough to feel the loss of a dear friend, and extra-ordinary if he did not hold me at least partly responsible for it. Because of that, I had decided not to tell him.

It was not cowardice on my part, but practicality. I needed his assistance and telling him that I had seen Fairfax shortly before his death would not render him in an amiable frame of mind. I saw it not as a lie, but rather as an omission. When this business was at an end, when the blackmailer had been brought to justice, when no more lives would end in the grey roiling waters of the Thames as a result of his greed, then I would tell him and take the consequences.

For the time being, I judged it better that Miles remain in a state of felicitous ignorance – enlightenment I have found never produces quite the same effect – although I could have wished for a less warm reception and his evident pleasure at seeing me.

"Sherlock," said he, gesturing me a cushion-filled chair. "Wherever have you been? I wondered what became of you."

"I have had matters of my own to attend to, Miles," I replied carefully.

He essayed a smile. "Come now, my dear boy, that is the polite way of saying you were embarrassed. I fear I took the news of poor Theo's death rather to heart the other afternoon. I am not usually so affected. It is not every day, however, that one is called upon to identify the body a friend."

The bold light that I was accustomed to seeing in his eyes faltered. "Those who romanticise the peaceful sleep of the dead have never seen the reality for themselves. The dead are not beautiful; only the living are. Poor Theo. He was little more than a boy, really. A foolish, foolish boy."

I watched him toss his spent cigarette into the grate, and wondered how I had the gall to sit and listen to genuine grief one moment and still demand his help the next.

"Miles, I am sorry," I said finally.

He shook his head. "I dare say you are, Sherlock, but I have had my fill of platitudes these last few days. Heaven knows I've had invoke enough of them myself. Condolences to his fiancée, consolation to his grieving mother, sympathy for his bereaved siblings." He sighed. "And now you sit there and tell me that you are sorry, you who knew him but for a moment."

"Every death is a cause for sorrow, whether the person is known to us or not."

"You sound like my wretched brother," he sighed. "If you intend to go pious on me, cousin, I shall have you turned out into the street. In which case spare me your philosophy and commiserations. Well, Theo is dead and past caring about yours or anyone else's sympathy. As for me, let us say that I am disappointed. I do not like to lose."

"Because he was a friend?"

"I do not like to lose in any situation," he corrected me crisply. "Death has a way of being inconvenient in that respect. But for the child's testimony, we could have passed off Fairfax's death off as an accident at the inquest today."

"What of the stones in his pockets?"

"For his collection?" he replied with a light shrug. "He was a collector of interesting flotsam and jetsam, perhaps. Details, Sherlock – are they so very important? I would have said anything to have spared his family the verdict of suicide. Under the circumstances, what else could the coroner record?" He finished his drink and stared at the empty glass. "No one understands the reason for what he did. He left no note, only many unanswered questions."

"But you know," I said. "You should tell the police."

A laugh escaped him. "My dear Sherlock, now you surely jest."

"I do not. You have the means to bring a blackmailer to justice, the man who drove your friend to his death. Do you not care?"

"Yes, I care," he said sharply, sitting up. "At the same time, I hold each man responsible for his own actions. The blackmailer wanted money from Theo, not his life. What worth is that to any, save the man himself? No, what killed Theo was guilt, not some paltry demand for money. The truth of the matter is that he could not live with the thought of what he had done."

I was experiencing a strange sense of being torn between chagrin that Miles was not prepared to speak out on Fairfax's behalf and in so doing end the misery of many others like him, and relief that when at last I came to make my confession that I would not be roundly condemned. My conscience eased a little, but not so my curiosity.

"What had he done?" I asked.

Miles made a long arm and took up another cigarette. "He killed someone."

I stared at him for a full minute, silenced into disbelief. I had imagined some petty misdemeanour, an exchange of letters perhaps or a wife married in secret in some far off parts, but never murder.

"Fairfax killed a man?" I echoed, finding my voice. "Who?"

"Some fellow in a disreputable Limehouse opium den, by all accounts. Theo assured me it was an accident. He said he remembered a dream in which he was attacked by a scarlet serpent and he triumphed only by choking the life out of the monster. Some days later he was informed that it had been no demon of his drug-fuelled imaginings, but a man come to replenish his pipe."

"And you were prepared to conceal his crime?"

Miles sighed theatrically. "My dear boy, what were we supposed to do? We had only the proprietor's word for it and he—"

"The proprietor?" I interjected. "He was the blackmailer? Not Ricoletti?"

Miles laughed throatily. "Whatever are you talking about? Do you think I would have gone to so much trouble on Theo's behalf on the word of a mange-hound like Ricoletti? You seem to have that man the brain."

Perhaps too much, I had to concede. I had convinced myself that the palmist was behind Fairfax's torment to the exclusion of all others. What I had thought was guilty confirmation when he had started at the mention of the man's name was no more than panic, in thinking that his secret was as plain for all to read as the lines of his hand. We had indeed both erred that day.

"Mind you, I do understand your preoccupation with the fellow," Miles said, gently prompting me back to the present. "I was led to believe that the reading he gave you was not good."

"It was not what I expected."

Miles raised his brows. "You expected to be told that you would live forever? Arrogant little puppy, aren't you? I do wonder, however, whether there is any point in our continuing with your education. If you are to be drowned like a lazy sewer rat in the very near future, then my expending energy on your behalf is futile." He gave me a challenging look. "You know, when they first told me that a man had been hauled from the Thames, I thought it was you."

"Rather me than Fairfax?"

"Perhaps. Oh, do not take it personally. A man is judged less by his family than the company he keeps. Have I thrived because I have wantwits for brothers and a mopish sister as my siblings? Indeed no. For that I am pitied, not condemned. If I choose to associate with others of a less eccentric bent, then that is a reflection of my good taste."

"By others, you mean murderers?"

He seemed unperturbed by my retort. "That is the chance we take when we exercise our judgement in our choice of friends. Every man should try it once – even you, Sherlock. A friend is… well, to use a crude analogy, as is pepper to a steak. One could survive without it, but it makes one's meal infinitely more interesting." He smiled. "In any case, I severely doubt that Theo was a murderer. He had his vices – any man worth knowing does – but to kill a man, even in the grip of delusion?" He shook his head. "Theo had a gentle, if troubled soul. I would no more believe that he had taken another's life than…" He searched for a comparable subject. "Well, than you would, cousin."

I had a fleeting moment of concern that his statement carried barbs intended to convey to me the certainty of his knowledge of my part in the affair. His eyes carried no gleam of spite, however, and I allowed myself to breath again.

"And as I said," he went on, "we had only the proprietor's word that murder had been done. He said the body had been disposed of – he did not elaborate and Theo did not ask – and demanded the sum of a thousand pounds to keep what he knew from the police. That convinced me of the falsity of his claim. Had I known of such a deed, I would not have settled for anything less than ten times that amount."

"Despite that, you were prepared to pay. You must have had some reservations."

"My concern was for Theo. His star was rising and he was about to be married. We are all assured that we are innocent until proven guilty by a jury of our peers, but people these days are quick to judge and slow to revise their opinions. I heard some appalling expression that expressed it better. What was it? Ah, yes. Mud sticks." He grimaced. "I abhor this trend of debasing the language with clichés and bon mots, but in this case the sentiment is true. Guilty or not, Theo would have suffered by this accusation for many years to come."

"Why did you not confide your doubts to Fairfax?"

"Oh, I did, Sherlock. But by that time he had convinced himself that he had done murder. My guess is that the proprietor heard him mumbling about his fight with the serpent and sought to make capital from it."

"All the more reason why you should now expose him for the criminal he is. He has undoubtedly done this before. You have the opportunity to prevent him from blackmailing anyone else."

Miles sniffed and considered. "I could," said he, "but who would take my word over that of an inspector of police?" He met my baffled gaze with mild amusement. "Didn't I tell you? This den of his is one of his 'other' interests, a profitable sideline if you will. Why do you think I started that afternoon I found you here in conversation with that rat-faced detective? I thought the fellow had had the gall to come to my home. I see now that I was less than the accommodating host that convention demands. Do pass on my apologies for my behaviour to your 'friend'."

"He is not my friend," I retorted. "Why would you think that?"

"If I offered tea to every rogue and scoundrel who came calling at my door to ask questions, I would be very soon out of pocket. No," he said thoughtfully, "you were too comfortable in each other's presence. I dread to think that you would mix with such a person in any social setting; therefore your conversation was of a professional nature. Since his business is crime, I have to assume that you are either a perpetrator or, heaven help us, a collaborator. Well, Sherlock, what is it to be? Do you have some hidden criminal past?"

"No."

"A shame. It would have given you a veneer of interest. You assist him then?"

"Our paths have crossed in the past."

Miles smiled wryly, and I gathered that he was not wholly satisfied with this explanation. He did not, however, press the issue. "Well, if I were you, I would keep this 'association' a secret. Nothing is more fatal to amiable conversation than an admission that a fellow's trade is either as a policeman or an undertaker. After that, one can never quite shake the impression that one is either being suspected of some crime or measured up for a coffin. On the whole," said he, "I think I preferred you when I thought you were mad."

"You would not be prepared to help me then?"

"Good gracious, whatever do you take me for?" He stabbed out his cigarette with actorly indignation. "I have done many things in my life that may be considered reprehensible, but there are things at which even I draw the line. Helping the police is one of them one. If they can't help themselves, then that's their problem, not mine."

"Even to telling me the name of the inspector who blackmailed Theo?"

"I do not know his name."

"The name of his establishment then?"

"Why?"

"Because if you will do nothing to curtail his activities, then I shall. My fri—acquaintance at Scotland Yard will deal with him. You need not be involved."

Miles thought hard for a moment. "The Golden Dragon, Lower Duke's Court."

"Thank you."

"Now I think you should go and do whatever is it is you do, Sherlock. This interrogation has made me feel quite fatigued… and somehow unsettled."

I gathered my things and rose. "Oh, there is one more thing, Miles." He glanced up at me, his face a picture of consternation. "Madame de Mont St Jean – I wish to see her."

He sprang to his feet with an energy I should have thought him incapable and came to stand uncomfortably close, so much so that I could detect the odour of the whisky on his breath and the slight scent of his hair cream. "That is probably the most interesting thing you have said yet," he remarked. "Why do you wish to see Célestine?"

"That is my business."

"No, Sherlock, it is mine. She is my friend, and friends must protect each other from malign influences."

"Is that what you think I am – a malign influence?"

"I don't know what you are, except that I have already lost one dear friend to whom I introduced you and I do not intend to lose another."

My heartbeat quickened. "Miles, I–"

He held up a hand. "Oh, I do not say that you were to blame. I do say, however, that since you were foisted upon me by your scourge of a brother, my life has deviated from that smooth, uninterrupted course which I have carefully cultivated all these years. You have the innocence of youth, Sherlock, but I am not altogether sure that you not a devil in disguise, sent to cause misrule and havoc."

We were treading dangerous waters. I had the impression that if Miles did not know for certain that I had had a hand in the tragedy surrounding Fairfax, then at the very least he suspected the truth. Because of that, I had not intention of telling him why I really needed to see Madame de Mont St Jean, which had been my reason for visiting him that day. If he knew I meant to get her to tell me the cause of her fear of Ricoletti, he would never willingly help me. I, however, had reasoned that it was the only way if I were ever to make any progress and finally rid myself of the accursed business.

I saw too that Miles was not to be underestimated. He had deduced the connection between Lestrade and myself, and I judged him more than capable of seeing through my thin excuses. Dissembling is an art in itself, although perhaps not an admirable one, but ever useful. In my choice of role as aspiring lover, the truth would have been easier than the fiction I had invented.

"She interests me."

Miles's face flickered with amusement for a moment. "Interests you how, Sherlock?"

"She is an intelligent conversationalist."

His expression fell. "Now you are lying to me. Célestine has many attractions but her wit is not one of them and I cannot believe that you have much interest in her preoccupations. Oh, I do not hold it against her. Her education was somewhat lacking, you see. She tells the world she springs from a disinherited scion of minor French nobility, but the truth is that she was dancer, plucked from provincial obscurity by a man who neither appreciated nor deserved her. And, when one night she was complimented on her grace and elegance, her brute of a husband ensured that no man would ever admire her again. He broke both her legs and left her crippled. That he did not break her spirit was the wonder of it, for dancing was her passion, the only thing at which she ever really excelled." He held my gaze for a long moment. "So you see, Sherlock, if I doubt your motives, I do so out of concern for the lady."

"I did not know. What became of the husband? She told me that she had married again, although was not specific as to number."

"He died. A shooting accident." His reply was frank, without emotion. "If Célestine wishes to forget that first attachment, then who can blame her?"

"And her other marriages?"

"A woman of such beauty has her admirers. Like his predecessors, her last husband was old, rich and easily flattered. Now she finds her own beauty waning, she seeks it in others. You would not be the first pretty fellow to catch her eye." He smiled at my discomfort. "I know that she finds you… fascinating. I cannot for the life of me see why, but then the humours of women will ever be a delightful mystery to me."

"She told you that?"

Miles nodded. "She said she regretted you had to go so soon the evening of the ball. She also mentioned something about you being asked to leave?"

"A misunderstanding."

"As I thought." His eyes swept over me, and the smile that settled on his features told of a decision reached. He draped himself back on the sofa with a weary sigh and rubbed his tired eyes. "Very well, go to Madame you shall. Only be aware that whatever it is you seek, something must be offered in return." His eyes flashed open and fixed on me. "The question is, Sherlock, what are you prepared to give?"

Deep waters indeed. Tread carefully, Mr Holmes!

Continued in Chapter Fourteen!